



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 

































•• 





























AND THE HONEYMOONERS WILL SIT IN THE DOOR OF THE 
CABIN AND WATCH THE MOON COME UP. 



A Romance of the 
Road 

Making Love and a Living 

BY 

ALICE CURTICE MOYER 

Signe: “Everybody in the story is in love. 
The booh is full of it from beginning to end. 
But the one Romance — the principal Romance 
— is the Romance unique. It couldn’t happen 
exactly the same anywhere else , nor under any 
other conditions. It is purely a ‘ Romance of 
the Road.’ ” — Page 200. 



ILLUSTRATED WITH 41 HALF-TONE 
PORTRAITS 

CHICAGO 

LAIRD & LEE, Publishers 




Copyright , 1912 
By William H. Lee 

All Rights Reserved. 



#/.« 0 

©CI.A314761' 


INSCRIPTION. 

To the benighted skeptic who may imag- 
ine that the life of the woman in business is 
sordid or loveless , this story is especially com- 
mended. 

To the many who know and love the girl 
in business and who appreciate her genuine and 
superior worth , — to these , it is hopefully in- 
scribed. 



ACKNOWLEDGMENT. 

To the dear girls of the “office,” who first 
inspired me to begin the volume, who graciously 
consented to the use of their portraits, and who 
made of our business life a most interesting setting 
for the romance that followed j and 

To the Travelers — the man and the woman 
“commercials,” who made this “Romance of the 
Road” a reality — 

To all of these, I gratefully acknowledge 
my indebtedness. 

A. C. M. 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I The Beginning 7 

II The Nice Pair 15 

III A Theme that is Never Old 22 

IV Myra 27 

V Would I Travel? 33 

VI A Woman Travelin’ Man 42 

VII At Miss Delia’s 51 

VIII Thar’s Others 62 

IX The Best of a Journey 73 

X Our Girls 82 

XI Mothers Know 88 

XII Wanted: A Villain 94 

XIII A Gray Hair 109 

XIV Dog Days nfl 

XV Coradell 123 

XVI That Other Traveler 128 

XVII Up a Tree 137 

XVIII Odd Place for Reminiscences 145 

XIX Bless Jack, Too 159 

XX Flowers Born to Blush Unseen 171 

XXI You’re Homesick 183 

XXII The Mystery 191 

XXIII Naming the Baby 198 

XXIV When Love Creeps In 208 

XXV “What a Beautiful World it Is” 217 

XXVI The Joke 222 

XXVII The Unexpected 227 

XXVIII The Bride 243 

XXIX The Hallowed Past 262 

XXX The Joyous Defeat 269 

























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A Romance of the Road 

Making Love and a Living 


CHAPTER I 

THE BEGINNING 

There’s to be but one thing about it not incidental: — the 
determination to write it. That it should be written, was pre- 
meditated, declared and avowed long ago, when I said “First 
of all, I am going to grow up; then I shall teach school; and 
then I shall get married.” A little later, I added “and then 
I shall write a book.” 

Well, I taught school; and I got married; and for a long 
while I have wished for time and opportunity to complete the 
vow. But the years have come and the years have gone, and 
not one of them has found me more nearly ready than its pre- 
decessor. It is often that way when you wait. And now, 
finally, I have decided to at least make a beginning and see how 
it comes out. It is said that the incidents along the way, as 
seen by any one individual, taken up and told at any period 
whatsoever, and howsoever incidentally, are sufficient to make 
an interesting volume. I believe it. And so, instead of the 
old themes of the other days, I shall put into this story the 
people I see every day as I sit at my desk on the big, roomy 

7 


8 


A Romance of the Road 


second floor of the concern, where our head bookkeeper each 
week hands me my pay envelope — for not only is Clara man- 
aging bookkeeper, but “watch dog of the treasury” as well. 
And she has a way of making you feel like thirty cents when 
you draw ahead on your salary. 

As another reason for this volume there are Sammy and 
Madge. I’ve threatened many times to put them and their 
countless misdeeds into print, but they go right on in their 
shameless way and dare me to tell. And I’m taking the dare. 

But just a part of the book will settle my score with Sammy 
and Madge and the rest of the story shall be about others of 
us, including Myra. 

I do not know how much of Myra’s story I may record. In 
fact, I really could write the book without her, but her story 
is an incident of more than passing interest, it seems to me, and 
so I shall write something of Myra. 

Lola has just passed my desk — Lola the irrepressible — doing 
a little two-step to the music of a very boyish whistle of her 
own rendition. The president of our company has known Lola 
since she was just a tiny girl. She has sort of grown up in 
the business and her prankish manners are not frowned upon 
severely nor even seriously, and the heads of the concern not 
only give her employment, but keep her under their protecting 
eyes as well, — for much of the time her only relatives are in a 
distant city. And Lola, in return, gives her employers value 
received in good service, for in spite of her pranks she keeps 
her head when at her desk. 

When I look up, I can see the Doctor away down at the 
other end of the room. He looks rather severe this morning, and 
even Lola settles down to a demure little walk as she comes 
within his line of vision. 

The Doctor is our office manager. At one time, he really 


The Beginning 


9 


was an M. D., but he quarreled with his profession and came 
to quarrel with us instead. He got some generous spats at 
first, from the heads of departments, and then we hit upon a 
plan to manage the manager: We just rub his fur the right 
way and wind him round our smallest fingers. He fairly beams 
under the treatment, and is so genial and pleasant, that we’ve 
decided he’s a most likable fellow. In fact, Lady Edith, all 
along — but I’ll tell of that later. 

All the Doctor needed was to have his coat stroked prop- 
erly; and after all, the rest of us are in the same boat. 

Here comes Olive. I know she is going to lean on my desk 
and give me the latest office news — Olive with the pretty brown 
hair and the big Irish blue eyes. You never saw eyes more 
riotously extravagant in the way of decoration than these orbs 
of Olive’s. Their long fringe of lashes is at once our admira- 
tion and our envy, and her complexion, taking note of this 
initiative, isn’t far behind in perfection. I really could say a 
lot of other interesting things about Olive’s attractiveness. I 
could tell about the wave in her hair, and her full red lips, 
but this ought to be enough to satisfy any reasonable or curious 
interest. Just imagine our surprise recently, when we dis- 
covered that, while we cannot feel sure Olive is going to keep 
secrets for the rest of us, she has kept one of her own remark- 
ably well, which shows that she can, when she thinks it worth 
while. Maybe I’ll have permission to tell you about this secret 
of Olive’s before my story is done. 

Signe will soon be ready for dictation, I see, and I must 
hurry these introductory remarks, which I am labeling Chapter 
One, and answer the correspondence that the first morning’s 
mail has brought to my department. 

Dear little Signe! She doesn’t realize just what a comfort 
she is, because she doesn’t really know how very satisfying it is 


10 


A Romance of the Road 


to have one’s letters written exactly as dictated. She just does 
her work well because she isn’t one of the girls who thought 
that, if she couldn’t do anything else, she could, at least, be a 
stenographer. And she’s so quiet — this little violet-eyed Signe 
— with the romantic name inherited from her Norse forefathers, 
and I notice this morning that there is a tinge of color in her 
cheeks that lends a new tint to her complexion, and brings out 
the shine in her wealth of chestnut hair. What a dear she is. 

My other best stenographer, Marie, is jolly and plump and 
German, with a laugh that is good to hear. Her eyes are a 
baffling amber. Sometimes she wears beads reflecting certain 
lights that match them. And Marie, too, will bear the O. K. 
stamp. Now with two such “right hand men” back of me, I 
ought to find some pleasure in the performance of my daily 
tasks. And I do. I decided long ago that if we do not find 
some pleasure in our every day work, we are going to wake up 
some morning, and discover that there are a lot of empty years 
behind us, and some more that are just as empty, staring us in 
the face. 

Here is Ruby. Ruby stands in high favor with high-up 
authority and deserves it. She is a graduate from the factory, 
where she began as a very little girl, and now she has a desk 
position and a little office of her own up on the third floor. 
You’ll hear a lot more about Ruby before this story is done. 

And then there is Clara’s sister, Agnes; and Ragna, a close 
friend of theirs. Ragna is another name inherited from the 
Northland. And there is our curly-haired Bess. These were 
with the firm when our manager was a shipper and they called 
him “Frank.” 

“It was a big mouth full at first,” said Bess once in speaking 
of it, “but it was a pleasant dose to take and it soon came easier 


The Beginning 


ii 


to say Mr. Wells than to say Frank. And the promotion was 
a good fit, right from the beginning.” 

One day during the noon hour, the girls were discussing a 
certain popular politician, when Ruby brought down one hand 
upon the other in her very emphatic way, and said : 

“I tell you, he is the greatest man since Lincoln!” 

“He isn’t either,” disputed one of the others. “Mr. Wells 
is.” And they all agreed with, the second girl, while Ruby ad- 
mitted, “That’s so.” And this incident fully illustrates the at- 
titude of his employes toward our manager. 

When I told Mr. Wells about his being the greatest man 
since Lincoln, he blushed like a girl, and I think his eyes were 
just a little misty. He’s a little blustery sometimes, Mr. Wells 
is, but his heart is in the right place every time and all the 
time, and while he doesn’t make business a sentiment nor senti- 
ment a business, yet he knows that a judicious mixture isn’t 
going to complicate either. And that he knows just how to 
administer the compound, is verified, day after day, as he holds 
the reins of management with hands that are strong and firm, 
and yet humane and kind. He grew up with this business, — 
as is often the way of managers. It was a little struggling af- 
fair at one time, occupying one small room over on the West 
side. But the founder knew he had a good thing and stuck 
through thick and thin, — and for a long time it was mostly 
thin. 

The founder who stuck is the company’s president now, and 
to quote Annie — “Bless his heart, he deserves every bit of his 
success, Mr. Chance does. He’s a man, every inch of him, 
all the way through.” 

Annie is the faithful maid who dusts our desks and empties 
our waste baskets and looks after our comfort generally. She 
suspended operations while addressing herself to the janitor 


12 


A Romance of the Road 


who was opening the blinds, and that worthy responded fer- 
vently, “I’d die fer ’im, I would.” 

Not one of us but loves the heads of our business, and every 
year there are new reasons for it. 

And they are fond of each other. Mr. Chance likes to tell 
how Frank, as a bottle washer, fired their one shipper and did 
the work himself, in addition to his other duties, and how he 
finally elected himself manager. If he hadn’t proved himself 
such a good manager, it wouldn’t be so amusing, of course, but 
he was just cut out for the place, and knew it, and wouldn’t 
rest till he got himself in. This is another trait said to be 
peculiar to managers. 

And these two great-hearted men are our “bosses.” Is it any 
wonder that we give them the very best there is in us? 

Madge and Sammy, whose offices are on the next floor above, 
have just made it convenient to come down to the main office 
at the same time, on errands each for her own department. It 
gives them a moment to walk arm in arm, and whisper a few 
confidences on the way. Madge is engaged and Sammy ex- 
pects to be, and so there is a lot in common between them for 
conversation. 

Sammy stoops and leaves a light kiss on my cheek as she 
passes — my queenly daughter with the sweet mouth and the 
blue eyes. She is like a tall lily, and Madge is a rich-hued 
pansy, with eyes as brown as Sammy’s are blue. They are as 
opposite, these close friends, as one decided type always is to 
another, and each is so perfect in her own distinct individuality, 
that there is no room for jealousy, and each, in the other, has 
an ardent and devoted admirer. 

There is one other who must appear more than casually in 
this first chapter — Lady Edith. She’s a most interesting wo- 
man, and her face lights up with the love that only mothers 


The Beginning 13 

know, as Madge, passing her office door, blows a kiss from the 
tips of her fingers. 

We call her Lady Edith because of her airs — she’s so full 
of them. And you can’t talk with her five minutes without 
feeling sort of dissatisfied with yourself, — as if you were left 
out of it, you know — for Lady Edith is always right on the 
inside track of a great many things from which the rest of us, 
for some unexplained reason, are barred. One is never sure 
just what these things are, but a word dropped here and there 
or a hint thrown out at just the right time, gives us a tanta- 
lizing glimpse of something delicious, and to us forbidden — and 
leaves us just peeking over the wall at some promised land, 
which we may not enter. 

And as a dispenser of local color — well, no story of Lady 
Edith’s ever suffers for lack of it. 

But these little kinks are not held against Lady Edith, by 
those of us who see her every day, for none know better than 
we, just how charming and likable she is; and, besides, we 
each have our own peculiarities. 

At present writing, it would seem that I have the advantage 
of the others. So far as I know they are not putting me in a 
book — and of course no one would expect me to say very much 
about my own short-comings. Besides I can’t see myself as 
others see me. 

This story can’t be a real “sure-enough” story, you know, 
unless I paint the characters as they really are, or as I, individ- 
ually, with the imperfections of an individual perspective, think 
I see them. 

How like a haven is this great business concern for widows 
and their daughters: There are Madge and her mother, and 
Sammy and her mother, and there are Esther and Velma, whose 
mothers belong to our traveling force. It is a business almost 


14 


A Romance of the Road 


“for women only.” Nine-tenths of us are women — women 
correspondents, women order clerks, factory help, etc., and wo- 
men travelers. 

And Mr. Wells assumes a pensive expression and sighs to 
Mr. Chance, “And to think that we are already happily 
married,” 


CHAPTER II 


THE NICE PAIR 

Sammy is not her real name. In fact, she almost escaped a 
real name, — for she was the first grandchild in the family. 
And the family sat up nights and held council after council, — 
and the end was not yet; for still the baby was not named. 
And then it was that a certain Civil War veteran came to our 
rescue and said that this very remarkable, unusual and unique 
first grandchild should be the namesake of a certain Southern 
city, the city where, at the close of the war, he was mustered 
out — told to go home to the young wife who was waiting and 
praying for his safe return. And as this Civil War veteran 
and local hero was none other than he whom the baby had 
chosen to be her grandfather, not one of us could say him nay. 

And that is how she came by her first initial, “S” and with 
“A” and "M” crowding in as two more of them, she has ever 
been Sam or Sammy to many of her friends. 

And Madge’s name is not Madge. But once she had an 
admirer who, for some unknown reason, preferred to call her 
that, and the rest of us fell into the habit — all except Mark. 
But Mark never does approve of the things done or said by 
other young men who admire Madge, so we don’t value his 
judgment in the matter. 

Really, I believe it is going to be great fun to write this 
book. I am beginning to enjoy it. 

15 


i6 


A Romance of the Road 


The Doctor has just made a pun — the hit of the season. 
Speaking of Sammy and Madge, he remarked “They’re such a 
nice pair, they’re almost a peach.” 

“Do you want to see their latest?” asked Bess this morning. 
“I carried the notes and kept the carbon copies.” 

I at once surmised that “they” were the nice pair, and I’m 
going to put their very intelligent and typical correspondence 
in the story: 

‘The warden’s gone to supper, and my keeper’s fast asleep. And 
in my. aeroplane, I now, from out my window creep. The light, to- 
night, is blinding, and the sun is broiling hot. The water seems so 
very dry as I swim across in thought. The old town clock with 
pleading face is asking me the time. The mermaids murmur in the 
air, while I commit the crime. — What are you going to do Monday 
evening?” 

“Methinks I smell the ancient mouse a-sailing through the air! 
Which one of us has clean gone daft? Oh! tell me! lady fair! The 
ice is far too torrid, and far too white the ink. How dare you ask 
me such a quiz, when I’m not allowed to think? Tomorrow was a 
lovely day. Last week will be the same. Wouldst think me rude, 
my ugly lamb, if I should ask your name? — That’s Mark’s evening. 
Why do you care what I am goipg to do? You wouldn’t break an 
engagement with him, for me, or anyone. But — a thought strikes 
me. Have you gone and quarreled with him again?” 

“Oh ! lovely, luny, lonesome night ! Oh ! waving, willful, water ! 
How heavenly her heavy hair — divinest darling daughter. The 
skimmy sky skims scummily, defying daisy demons. Oh ! cutest, 
cunning, curly curls! tremendous, trembling tremens! — Yes I have! 
and we’re not speaking.” 

“She sat beneath the biscuit tree and dreamed of onion cake, 
when suddenly the calf appeared and gave the bush a shake. The 
red shirts down in torrents fell, and drowned the maid beneath; and 
then a water cat came up and pulled out all her teeth. She sighed, 
‘Oh dear! you’ve saved my life! how could you be so mean?’ The 
poor cat shed a lobster red, and turned canary green. — If I couldn’t 
write better poetry than you’re sending in here, I’d label it some- 
thing else. I perceive that I shall have to see that man, Mark, 


The Nice Pair 


17 


again. You’ll have that golden mop of his all streaked with gray, 
while he is still young.” 

“Dippy as a countess, crazy as a queen, happy as a pessimist, 
senses none too keen, joyful as a jaybird, cheerful as a mourner, 
playful as the family ghost, intelligent as a — as a — a — I’ve lost the 
connection, but whatever it is, it’s you. I’ll never speak to him 
again, and I don’t care if every thread of that yellow mop turns 
gray. This is the time that even you can’t fix it up. It’s past mend- 
ing. Will you see ‘The Widow’ with me Monday evening?” 

“Mr. Tomato fell in love, but he couldn’t ketchup with the can, 
because he was jealous, and sad, and shy, and he wasn’t a ladies’ 
man. — Yes, I’ll go.” 

“And this, Sam dear, ends the sad; sad tale — so sad and yet so 
true ! It is the answer to the question, ‘Why are roses blue ?’ — 
Your old rhyme is almost suggestive. If you don’t watch out, I 
won’t speak to you, either.” 

“Early in June they’ll be married — the happiest period of life. 
She’ll think him the rose of life’s garden. He’ll call her the spice 
of his life. — Let’s be friends until the wee sma’ hours of Tuesday 
morning. I want to see ‘The Widow.’” 

And Madge wrote in answer: “All right. But say, Sammy, hon- 
estly, I’m not speaking to him, and it’s all off about June — anyhow, 
it’ll be a long way-off June, five or seven years, you know. But as 
I remarked above, I’m not speaking to him.” 


“She isn’t speaking to him again, I’ve heard,” said Bess to 
Mr. Brocki, confidentially, as they took the elevator back of my 
desk. 

Mr. Brocki is manager of our shipping department, and a 
secret admirer of Madge's, which means, of course, that every- 
body knows about it, and the welcome news of the nine-hun- 
dred and ninety-ninth time that she was not on speaking terms 
with Mark, gave him such a twinge of happiness, that he im- 
mediately called up a florist, and ordered a dozen of her favorite 
roses, which happened also to be his. This made it safe, at 


A Romance of the Road 


18 

least, for if she wouldn’t have them, no body would think it 
strange to see a vase of his favorites on his desk.^ 

He was so lost in this moment of unadulterated bliss, that 
Mrs. Watson couldn’t even interest him in the latest prank of 
the twins. He merely glanced at the end of the long packing 
table, where they worked side by side, wearing an expression of 
angelic sweetness. 

“The diabolical young angels!” he said, smiling indulgently. 

Mrs. Watson turned away wondering and was still wonder- 
ing when I met her on the stairs an hour later. “Come into 
my office a moment,” she said. “I am going to interview the 
twins myself, since I can’t interest Mr. Brocki.” 

Mrs. Watson is head of the labeling department, where a 
number of girls are employed, and her problems are, in the 
very nature of things, many and varied. 

“Fire them bodily, if you like, Mrs. Watson,” said Mr. 
Brocki, putting in his head a moment at her door, “but just what 
is it all about?” 

“It’s just as I told you this morning, Mr. Brocki — have 
you forgotten? The girls went to the cloak room to remove 
their wraps and put on their aprons. There was a live mouse 
pinned up in the pocket of each apron, and in some of them 
there were two or three. You know how some of those girls 
are about mice. Two of them were so frightened and nervous 
they had to go home for the day.” 

“What makes you think Johnny Summers did it?” 

“The janitor saw him coming out of the girls’ dressing 
room early this morning. Really, you know, Mr. Brocki, the 
boys don’t mean any harm by their tricks. They never do mean 
any harm, but their antics are so many and so varied, that it’s 
getting on my nerves. I never know where lightning may 
strike next, and while most of their jokes are really laughable in 


The Nice Pair 


19 


a way yet some of them are most too practical to be real funny. 
A little talk from you wouldn’t come amiss, I think.” 

“How does the janitor know it was Johnny?” 

“He says he knows them apart.” 

Brocki rang for the janitor. “How do you know it was 
Johnny that did it?” he asked. 

“How do I know!” the janitor was indignant. “How do 
I know, Mr. Brocki? Wouldn’t I recognize that there mug 
anywhere in the world? that there turned-up pug of a nose 
and that there round fat face and towsled up red hair, and 
the—” 

“All right, Jensen. Once I knew a lady who saw the same 
rabbit every time she drove to the country. She just knew it 
was the very same rabbit, because it had a white tail. Did it 
ever occur to you, that Johnny Summers hasn’t a monopoly on 
the pug-nosed fat face or the scarlet-hued top? You may go, 
Jensen. 

“Really, I would discharge these heavenly twins myself, Mrs. 
Watson, but they’re good workers and we’re very busy right 
now.” 

“But wouldn’t they be discharged and wouldn’t you have to 
get along without them, just the same, if I did it?” 

“Certainly — or, rather — no, not exactly. You see I could 
take them on again, possibly, if someone else did it. Mr. 
Wells did it for me the last time, and Mr. Chance the time 
before that.” He paused a moment and then, “It’s all right, 
though, whatever you do about it, Mrs. Watson. Everything 
is all right.” 

He was gazing out over the lake. There was a white sail 
in the distance. “I think my ship is coming in,” he mused, and 
then, remembering himself, left the room hurriedly, red to the 
roots of his mouse-colored hair. 


20 


A Romance of the Road 


“Is the man crazy?” Mrs. Watson was amazed. 

“Yes,” I said, “he is. But there are others like him, and 
here are the twins.” 

“Boys,” said Mrs. Watson, severely, “aren’t you ever going to 
grow up? Here you are twenty years of age, and it is surely 
time you were learning to behave yourselves. Mr. Brocki has 
been lenient with you because you are good help, but some of 
these times you will go too far. Now while this mouse joke 
was harmless enough in itself, yet it is the latest of a long 
series of harmless offenses, if there could be such a thing as a 
harmless offense, and really it must stop. It gives me no end 
of trouble with the girls. Now which one of you is Johnny?” 

Johnny: “I am, Mrs. Watson. And, say, that reminds me 
of a funny thing that happened last night. We stopped to buy 
some popcorn in front of a saloon. A man came out and 
looked at us, and said, ‘Ain’t it funny how a fellow thinks, 
sometimes, that he’s seein’ double?’ And say! do you know, 
Lola is about to turn me down. Says she’s afraid she’ll marry 
the wrong one by mistake and never’ know the difference.” 

Jimmy: “And such a thing really could happen you know. I 
don’t blame Lola since she prefers Johnny, — now if she had 
favored me — ” 

Johnny: “Before we came to live in Chicago, Jimmy had two 
sweethearts. He didn’t want either to know about the other, 
so, when he called on Mattie, I called on Minnie, and vice versa. 
I made love to them both, and was engaged to both of them at 
the same time, all in the name of Jimmy, and Jimmy had to 
buy two engagement rings, and then he left town rather than 
allow matters to go further.” 

Jimmy: “And the funny part of it all is, Mrs. Watson, that 
they got the ribbons on our arms mixed someway, and never 
were sure about them afterward, and I’ve somehow had a sneak- 


The Nice Pair 


21 


ing idea, all along, that I am Johnny and that he is Jimmy— 
and yet I am Jimmy and he is Johnny. It’s this double identity 
business that gets us into trouble. We don’t know ourselves, for 
sure, just which is which.” 

Johnny: “And this makes it practically impossible for this 
firm to fire us for keeps, because, you see, we are not the persons 
they believe us to be. And if they find out who we really are, 
then we will be the ones they now think us to be.” 

“I don’t see the point,” said Mrs. Watson coldly. 

Johnny: “Then I’m sure there isn’t any point. You would 
see it, Mrs. Watson, if there was just the ghost of a point. 
Why, we sometimes think you have eyes in the back of your 
head. You catch us every time.” 

Jimmy: “But, really, Mrs. Watson, we are going to turn over 
a new leaf. It’s a lot of fun to play jokes on those girls, but it 
isn’t right to have the fun at your expense, and we’re going to 
cut it out — at least most of it.” 

Johnny: “But it’s this double identity that’s to blame. It’s 
awful! It just tempts us to pranks. Why, it would drive most 
fellows to drink. Good-bye, Mrs. Watson. I hear the call of 
the packing table.” 

Jimmy: “Good-bye. We go forth to search for ourselves. If 
we drop in while we are absent, just give us a cookie, and ask 
us to wait until we return.” 

“Do you think they really mean to do better?” I asked. 

“Of course,” said Mrs. Watson. “They always do.” 


CHAPTER III 


A THEME THAT IS NEVER OLD 

“What a pretty woman you would be, Lady Edith,” said Mr. 
Wells one day last winter, “if you were just hammered out to 
the right proportion.” 

“She isn’t so bad looking, anyhow,” said the Doctor. 

And Lady Edith continued the laborious exercise of rolling 
on the floor thirty minutes every morning, and, though it isn’t 
noticeable to the casual observer, her circumferential measure- 
ments are four inches smaller. 

This morning we were commenting upon it, and Mr. Wells 
said, “Now if it doesn’t kill you, Lady Edith, I’ll try it myself. 
My waistline is becoming painfully shorter every day.” 

“Lady Edith doesn’t need this treatment so much after all,” 
said the Doctor. “I always admired plump women.” 

“Thank you, Doctor. Most people would call it ‘fat’.” 
There was an expression in her eyes that was reserved for the 
Doctor only. 

“Ahem! Let me see,” said Mr. Wells reflectively. “What 
little god is it that is said to be blind ? Think of a middle-aged 
romance going on right under our noses.” 

“I am thinking of it,” returned the Doctor unblushingly, 
“But why ‘middle-aged’? Isn’t it a theme that is never old?” 

At this, Lady Edith blushed so prettily and looked so sweet 
when she did it, that the Doctor — well, do you know what he 
did? 


22 


A Theme that is Never Old 


23 


It happened in Lady Edith’s office, and none of the girls were 
about. Why, he just took her in his arms and kissed her. And 
he didn’t seem a bit embarrassed by our presence. 

“I’ve always believed you to be a sensible fellow, Doctor,” 
said Mr. Chance, “and now I know I haven’t misjudged you.” 

“I wonder who it was that said there isn’t any room in busi- 
ness for love,” mused Mr. Wells. “But you know, Lady 
Edith, that ‘a widow who gets married doesn’t deserve to be 
one.’ Have you fully considered that view of the matter?” 

I tried to say something, but somehow there was a lump in 
my throat. I have seen all along how things are with them, and 
I’m so glad for Lady Edith. Madge will be leaving her some 
of these days and she will have the Doctor to comfort her. 

And, anyhow, no matter how we may idolize our children, 
there comes a time when their companionship doesn’t wholly 
satisfy. It becomes a divided treasure. They grow up and 
form associations of their own. We wish them to. We would 
not have it otherwise. And yet, their doing so, leaves a void in 
our own lives and an ache in our hearts and we scarcely know 
where to turn for comfort. I can see how wise is Lady Edith 
to prepare for her battle in time of peace. 

There is another charming widow in our concern — Miss Fe- 
dora. Contradictory? Well, maybe so. But someone began 
it. We discovered that it was a musical name when said that 
way, and kept on saying it. We have promised to modify it 
when she marries. 

Since I am exposing the flaws of others, I am going to tell 
you about Miss Fedora’s chiefest fault for this, you know, is a 
“sure-enough” story. To Miss Fedora, women are wholly un- 
businesslike and unreasonable; and they are envious, jealous, 
enemies of other women, etc., etc. And she is always saying, 
“Isn’t that just like a woman?” 


24 


A Romance of the Road 


“Now don’t you girls get jealous of Lady Edith,” said Mr. 
Wells to Miss Fedora and me, and Miss Fedora replied, “We 
wouldn’t be women if we didn’t.” 

“Miss Fedora,” said Mr. Chance, “do you realize that you 
are going to be judged individually, by just what you say of 
other women ? Do you wish us to believe that you, yourself, are 
jealous, envious, narrow-minded, inconsistent, and everything 
that you say women are ? Do you know that men, particularly, 
judge a woman by her estimate of other women, and by the 
things she says of them? Recently, I sat at dinner with a party 
of friends. A man in the crowd made just about such a remark 
in regard to women as you would make, and a woman of the 
party, thinking to curry favor, I presume, immediately agreed 
with him. Do you know what she lost by it ? She was in love 
with a member of the party, a bachelor friend of mine, who, in 
turn, was on the verge of deciding that he had found the right 
woman at last — but that settled it. He hasn’t cared anything 
about her since.” 

Miss Fedora: “You are hitting pretty hard, Mr. Chance.” 

Mr. Chance: “But I’m doing it for your own good. I want 
you to see this thing from a man’s view-point. Why, there isn’t 
a man in the universe who doesn’t admire the woman who 
speaks well of other women, and who defends them individually 
and collectively, whenever and wherever she has opportunity. 
You are too charming a woman, Miss Fedora, to lower your 
own individuality as you have persisted in doing.” 

Miss Fedora: “It seems to me that you are making this very 
personal.” 

Mr. Wells: “You know, Miss Fedora, it is agreed in this 
concern that personality must be secondary to whatever is be- 
lieved to be good for the business — and maybe this attitude of 
yours isn’t good for it. Our travelers are women. Our local 


r A Theme that is Never Old 


25 


managers are women. You, yourself, are a woman. To even 
up the score, you may tell Chance and myself about our own 
shortcomings. Begin on me.” 

Miss Fedora: “I’ll begin on both of you at one and the same 
time, and will say of you what you both always say of women — 
you are not consistent yourselves! There! Now!” 

Miss Fedora’s eyes were shining like two stars done in violet. 
She is always pretty, but prettier when animated and just a 
little combative. 

We all laughed and Mr. Chance said “Right you are, Miss 
Fedora. It is entirely true that men are every whit as change- 
able and inconsistent as they claim they aren’t. I know scores 
of men who advocate one thing and practice another. I know a 
half-great politician who has never been able to become wholly 
so, because he can’t be depended upon. He advocates to-day the 
things he denounced yesterday, and his constituents never feel 
sure but that the platform which put him in office, he might, 
after election repudiate in all sincerity and honesty.” 

“And yet,” said the Doctor, “it is only the wise who change 
their minds occasionally, and maybe it isn’t best, after all, to be 
wholly and entirely consistent. In fact, I feel pretty sure it 
isn’t. I have known a few worthy souls whose characters were 
spoiled by the fetich, consistency, because they were extremists 
in their efforts to live, unremittingly, up to some ideal laid out 
for themselves years before, and stubbornly refusing to re-con- 
sider, even in the light of maturer reason. So it isn’t so great to 
be wholly and stubbornly consistent. But what I wish is, that 
we cease to lay all that is unreasonable at the door of just half 
the world for we are all very much alike in our aims and hopes 
and ambitions, and when we can quit thinking of, and classing, 
women merely as women and men merely as men, and can think 
of each person as a distinct individual, with a distinct individu- 


26 


A Romance of the Road 


ality, wholly independent of sex, then, and then only, will we 
be fair in our opinions and criticisms.” 

“And now,” said Mr. Wells, “let’s go to lunch. After all 
this I am famished.” 

“Besides,” said Mr. Chance, “we wish to drink to the health 
of the bride-to-be, if it’s nothing but a cup of coffee.” 

I wonder if there is just such another business house as this, 
anywhere. There is a spirit of friendliness and good fellowship 
pervading the atmosphere at every turn, and there is not a par- 
ticle of uppishness or snobbery anywhere. Not even the heads 
of the firm are handicapped by a belief that they are made of 
different clay from that used in the construction of their hum- 
blest employe. And each and every hired worker from the base- 
ment to the attic is working for the good of the business. 

Is it any wonder that each year is bigger and better than its 
predecessor ? 


CHAPTER IV 


MYRA 

She was such a pale, slender thing, and her eyes were so 
dark and her hair so reddish, — and she said she didn’t have any 
name and wasn’t from anywhere at all. That is what she told 
Hannah, when she called that morning to ask for employment, 
and Hannah, perplexed, sent her to Mrs. Watson. 

“ But, surely, you have a name, dear,” said Mrs. Watson, 
kindly, “and you must surely be from somewhere ; you couldn’t 
have dropped from the moon, could you?” Mrs. Watson 
smiled as she said this and the girl smiled just a little and 
said, “My name is Myra,” and Mrs. Watson didn’t question 
her. She gave her a place by the window, overlooking the lake, 
and was kind to her. It is Mrs. Watson’s nature to be kind, 
and it is my belief that this pale, slender girl, with the thin 
face and the big eyes, was led, providentially, straight to our 
place, and to Mrs. Watson. 

She had been with us a couple of months when Mrs. Watson 
said to me one day, “Do you notice how much better Myra is 
looking? Her face is rounding out and she isn’t so pale.” 

“But that heart-breaking expression is still in her eyes.” I 
said. 

“Yes, and I wonder what it means.” Mrs. Watson looked 
troubled. “I wonder that I took her as I did, without even 
knowing her name. I wonder why she is in Chicago.” 

27 


28 


A Romance of the Road 


“She’ll tell you all about it some day, perhaps,” I said, and 
to-day I have the story. 

“I found it on my desk this morning,” said Mrs. Watson, 
and this is the letter she handed me : 

“Dear Mrs. Watson: — All along I have felt that you should 
know; and every day I have tried to tell you. But I know I shall 
cry and cry if I attempt it and that is why I am writing. 

“I don’t know just where to begin. I don’t suppose it matters. 
I can’t remember much about my parents. Both of them died the 
year I was four. Billy was two. We went to live with our Uncle 
Thomas who already had a large family and who was as poor as 
my own parents had been; for my father was also a tie-hacker. 

“Do you know what a tie-hacker is? In our country, it is one 
who chops down government timber and makes it into ties for the 
railroads. These ties are traded to the merchant for things to eat, 
and for clothes and shoes if there are enough. It was hard for 
Uncle Thomas to make enough ties to go around before the boys 
grew large enough to help and often we smaller ones went bare- 
foot all Winter. 

“And then one time when the snow was very deep, Billy took 
pneumonia, and — Oh! Mrs. Watson! I can’t even write about it. 
When I saw them covering up his little coffin (he was just five 
then), I thought I should die; and I really wished to. 

“Uncle and Aunt were as kind to us as to their own but were 
too poor to do anything for any of us — and always there was the 
fear of the U. S. officer, who came, sometimes, when they least ex- 
pected it. Once, the second year Billy and I were with them, we 
were all hurried into the old covered wagon one night, and when 
the sun came up next morning, we were twenty miles away, where 
Uncle Thomas made ties again until he felt sure the scare was over 
and it was safe to return. 

“The tie-hackers justify their calling. It never occurs to them 
that they are actually stealing; they are just beating an unfair law. 
They claim that the world owes them a living and they say that that 
is the only way they have of getting it. 

“When I was fifteen, I went to the bottoms where the well-to-do 
farmers live and I hired out all Summer so as to buy clothes for 
the Winter. School began in September and I so much wished to 
have some shoes to wear. I was getting too big to go bare-foot. 

“Our teacher was a young man from another county, and — Oh! 
it was then, Mrs. Watson, that I began to live. I can hear the 


Myra 


29 


music of his voice right now. It is always with me. He wasn’t 
so handsome, but he had a face to make you just love him. He 
was big and strong and was twenty-one. And I was an insignificant 
child, ignorant and unlearned. Anyhow, I could worship him, I 
told myself, and he would never know. 

“How I studied. He was very kind. He gave me books to read 
and taught me to speak more properly than I had spoken before. 
But he did the same for the others, and there was pretty Ila Mack, 
a black-eyed girl two years my senior, who lived in the rich bot- 
toms, and one time he had walked all the way home with her and 
had spent the night at her home, as teachers do in the country. 1 
couldn’t invite him to my poor home, and, besides, I was only a 
child. 

“But there came a time — Oh! I am living over it now. It was 
my sixteenth birthday and the last day of school. Everybody was 
there. They gave the teacher what we call a ‘big dinner/ which 
means that the parents bring in a lot of nice things to' eat and they 
all have dinner together, at noon. 

“I slipped away, miserable and unhappy, while the fathers and 
mothers and pupils were telling the teacher goodbye that afternoon. 
He would never miss me — and I was so miserable. At the cross 
roads, I discovered that, in my hurry, I had forgotten my books 
and my lunch-basket. I did not dare leave them, for the next day 
the school house would be nailed up tight. Aunt would want the 
basket and I would want the books. I would just have to go back 
after them. I waited a while, so as to be sure that everybody was 
gone and then I turned back. 

“Almost at the same moment I saw the teacher coming toward 
me. He carried my books and lunch basket. My first thought was 
to hide in the hazel thicket beside the road, but he saw me and 
called to me. I had been accustomed to obey him, and came out 
into the road, now, at his request. 

“‘Myra/ he said, ‘Why did you run away? Didn’t you wish to 
say goodbye as the others were doing? Don’t you care?’ 

“ ‘Oh ! if he only knew/ I thought. And do you know, Mrs. Wat- 
son, he did know. 

“ ‘Little Sweetheart !’ he said, ‘Little Sweetheart ! In two more 
years you will be eighteen and then I am coming to take you away.’ 

“He walked on home with me and told Uncle Thomas all about 
his plans. This district school experience, he told us, was just a 
part of his education. He had excellent prospects and would, in 
two years, be able to take good care of me. 

“Oh! the joy of it! It was almost unbelievable, that I, a little 


30 


A Romance of the Road 


backwoods country girl — but he would not listen, and told m,e that 
he had loved me all the time and knew that I loved him. 

“He stayed on a whole week longer, and every day he came to 
see me and we walked and talked and made plans. And then he 
left us, and I went back to the home of the well-to-do farmer. 

“After my work was done of evenings, I studied the books 
Robert sent me. I called him Robert now. How I loved the name! 
And I saved almost every penny of my scant wages for my wedding 
outfit. 

“The time passed and it lacked only six months of the two years. 
I was going to begin buying my things the next week, so as to have 
plenty of time to get them ready, when Mr. Hallett, a neighbor who 
took the weekly newspaper from Robert’s town, stopped at the gate. 
Mr. Hallett’s relatives live over there and one had made him a pres- 
ent of a year’s subscription to the county newspaper — and at the 
same time paved the way for my death-sentence to reach me 
promptly. 

“ ‘Myrie,’ called Mr. Hallett from the gate ‘come here, Myrie.’ 
I had known Mr. Hallett all my life. ‘Come here, child, and read 
this here,’ he said. 

“I read it. Then I read it again. And I didn’t know anything 
till the next day when I awoke, in my right mind, and asked them 
to send for Mr. Hallett. It seemed that I must have had a bad 
dream. It just couldn’t be true. I would have to see the paper 
again. 

“Mr. Hallett came and I read the notice carefully, and then I 
said ‘I don’t believe it.’ 

“ ‘I wouldn’t ’a’ b’lieved hit myself, Myrie,’ said Mr. Hallett, 
kindly, ‘ ’ceptin what I seed with my own eyes when I was over thar 
last week.’ 

“I remember just how Mr. Hallett said it, and I compared his 
crude speech with Robert’s good language, just as I had, for two 
years compared everything that everybody said or did, with the way 
Robert would have done it or said it. 

“ ‘What did you see, Mr. Hallett,’ I asked. I was defiant and 
was angry with the editor of that paper for the mistake he had made. 

“ ‘I was drivin’ home with my brother-in-law, and we overtook 
a couple o’ young folks in a buggy,’ he said. ‘They was drivin’ 
slow and talkin’ and my brother-in-law says, ‘That’s Mr. Robert 
Willis’ ’n the girl he’s going to marry.’ But I didn’t say nothin’ 
’bout hit when I come home, fer I didn’t b’lieve hit, an’ I didn’t 
want to worry you, Myrie. But when I seed hit in the paper’ — He 
hesitated and I said ‘Of course, Mr. Hallett.’ ‘I jest ’lowed to 


Myra 


3i 


Mandy,’ he continued, ‘that you orter be told. I’m glad, Myrie, to 
see you talcin' it so ca’m. There’s ’s good fish in th'e sea as’s ever 
been caught out. So you jest perk up ’n come over ’n spend a 
week with Mandy an’ me soon ’s you can.’ 

“Isn’t it odd, Mrs. Walker, that I remember every word Mr. Hal- 
lett said that afternoon and just how he said it? Maybe it’s be- 
cause those were the last words I ever heard spoken by one of my 
old friends and neighbors. Maybe it’s because I was dead to all 
emotion, and just received and recorded the words as a machine 
would have done. 

“That night when the farmer’s family were asleep, I put on my 
best dress, the calico I wore when you first saw me, took my purse 
from under my pillow, and left the house. 

“It was very dark. I had always been timid about being alone 
in the dark, but to-night I didn’t mind at all. It had been ages ago 
when I did mind. Anyhow, I was dead now, and nobody would 
harm the dead. 

“I sobbed a little over my sad fate. I had died just when life 
was beginning for me. It was sad, very sad. And then I laughed 
quite heartily over the fact of my walking about, even though I 
was dead. Really it was quite a joke. 

“Why, — I had walked nine miles, — for there was the little sta- 
tion, — and I heard the train coming in the distance. I didn’t see 
the train often and stopped on the platform to watch. I saw the 
station master take the mail bags and turn away, and I saw the con- 
ductor signal to the man in the engine, and, just as the train was 
starting, I obeyed a sudden impulse and climbed on. 

“The conductor came in and asked me for my ticket. I didn’t 
know about tickets and didn’t have any. He said, ‘Where are you 
going?’ and I said ‘To Chicago.’ I hadn’t thought of Chicago till 
that minute. ‘That is five hundred miles away,’ said the conductor. 
And then he told me where I would have to change cars, and said 
he couldn’t be on the train all the way with me, and that I ought 
to have a through ticket. 

“You see I had worked a whole year and a half and had sixty- 
five dollars saved up, so I gave the conductor my purse, and at the 
next station he bought the through ticket. . He was very kind and 
I laughed to myself, all the time, wondering what the conductor 
would say if he knew I was dead. 

“My head was very hot, and I fell asleep, and I don’t remember 
the journey very clearly, but when I reached Chicago, I asked the 
ticket man where I could go to board a while. He looked at me 
straight and hard. He was very busy and I thought he was angry 


32 


A Romance of the Road 


because I had bothered him. ‘How old are you?’ he asked. I told 
him. ‘Have you ever been to the city before?’ I told him I had 
not. ‘What are you going to do, now that you are here?’ ‘I don’t 
know,’ I said, ‘but I have money to pay my board a while if it isn’t 
very expensive.’ 

“He shook his head and seemed in doubt about something, and 
then he wrote a note which he gave me, and put me in a cab. He 
was kind, after all, and the lady he sent me to, has the funny name 
of Mrs. Acorn, and she was kind, too, and she didn’t scold because 
I told her only my first name, and when my money was nearly gone, 
I told her about it, and we talked about work, and something led 
me here. 

“And, Mrs. Watson, it is here that I am finding myself again. 
I am beginning to realize that I am alive, after all, and with 
this realization, comes hope. I don’t know what it is, but there is 
something still to live for, and it will come to me in its own good 
time. 

“And now, I have told you; and I know you will understand. 

Myra.” 

And now I know you will agree that Myra’s story is an in- 
cident of more than passing interest and that I ought not to 
leave it out. 


CHAPTER V 


WOULD I TRAVEL? 

“Mrs. Alice Von Meyer, I’ve something to tell you,” re- 
marked Mr. Wells this morning. “Gee!” said he suddenly 
changing his tone. “Isn’t that name of yours a give-away? It 
simply smells to heaven of sauerkraut and wena-wurst. I’d 
change it if I were you.” 

“It’s enough to tempt one, just to see Lady Edith,” I said, 
“She is fairly beaming with happiness — yet,< — ” 

“She does look happy, that’s a fact — and prettier. Do you 
know, love is a great beautifier — and there is no ‘yet*’ ” 

“I don’t believe in second marriages,” I said. 

“Oh! pshaw! Neither do I just now. I don’t need to. But 
this is what I was going to tell you,” and he lit his cigar and 
looked out over the lake reflectively. 

I waited his pleasure. I had known, intuitively, from the 
first, that his remarks were merely preliminary. 

“You see, Mrs. Von., it’s this way. Not one member of this 
concern, not the head of a single department, has ever experi- 
enced even one day of the road work. Now, mind you, there 
isn’t anything wrong with our system. Our traveling force was 
never so large nor so efficient as right now. But we direct it all 
on a theory basis. True, we know the theory is a good one. 
We know that we send out travelers to do certain things and 
they do them. But I want some one in this office to realize from 

33 


34 


r A Romance of the Road 


actual experience, just what this traveling work means. We 
have talked the matter over, Mr. Chance and myself, and have 
decided that you are the one to go out after this experience.” 

“Why not yourself, or Mr. Chance, or some of the others?” 

“Mr. Chance is too lazy. I am too fat. Lady Edith is too 
fat. The Doctor is too thin. And, anyhow, it would be the 
essence of cruelty to separate Lady Edith and the Doctor right 
now. Really, Mrs. Von., you are the only available material at 
hand, and we very much wish you to go. It will mean a lot 
of experience for you, and will be a real benefit to the business. 
I will see to it, personally, that your work doesn’t suffer. Your 
stenographers are competent. I’ll wager that Signe has taken 
your dictation until she can imitate you so exactly, that, on a 
familiar theme, you couldn’t distinguish a letter of hers from 
one of your own, and with the more difficult correspondence, I 
will help. So, as far as your affairs in the office are concerned, 
they can go on very well for a month or two. As to Sammy and 
Carl,—” 

He looked out again over lake Michigan, and I looked back 
over certain periods of the last fifteen years. My poor babies! 
In thought, I went back over the time when I used to get them 
up and give them their breakfasts when other little ones were 
still fast asleep. I would put Sammy’s hair into long, soft 
braids and tie on the ribbons. I would lay out the little frock 
she was to wear to school, and a clean blouse and tie for her 
brother. Then I would kiss them and hurry away to the office, 
blinded by the tears that just would come, realizing all the 
while, just how much of the tender mother-ministrations they 
were missing. In fancy I could see just how they were helping 
each other get ready for school — how Carl was buttoning Sam- 
my’s little dress, and how she, in turn, would see that his tie 
was on right. 


Would I Travel ? 


35 


And when they returned at four in the afternoon, two hours 
before I could leave the office, I know each day that they would 
put on their play-clothes and make themselves happy and wait 
for six o’clock. Carl felt it his duty to look after Sammy, and 
Sammy felt responsible for her brother, so they played about and 
took care of each other, and grew up devoted, self-reliant and 
dependable. 

“As to Sammy and Carl,” repeated Mr. Wells, “I’ve an idea, 
Mrs. Von., that you’ll not need to worry about them, during 
your absence.” 

He looked full at me now, and I suppose I was wearing an 
expression he had seen before, for he said: 

“Oh! pshaw! now, Mrs. Von. They’re all the better for 
those old, hard days, and anyhow, they weren’t nearly so hard 
for them as they were for you. And just see the result. You 
won’t find finer specimens of young manhood and young woman- 
hood anywhere, than your own two kiddies, — physically, men- 
tally, morally. So you see it wasn’t all for nothing.” 

“No,” I said, “I am well paid — good measure, pressed down 
and running over. Nobody knows it so well as I, and I am 
thankful for my children every day of my life. When do you 
wish me to go?” 

Mr. Wells is a natural-born diplomat. I knew every word 
he said about my “kiddies” was true — and so did he — but it is 
something to know a thing, and something else to be able to men- 
tion it at just the right time and in just the right way. Ten 
minutes before, I would have believed it impossible to go. Now, 
he not only made me see how desirable it was from a business 
point of view, but how easily, at the same time, I could leave 
home without working any hardship upon my family. 

But he only replied quietly, “Thank you. I felt sure I could 
depend upon you. It’s for the good of the business, you know, 


36 A Romance of the Road 

which means that it is good for all of us. I think you may plan 
to go next week.” 

So I am at my desk and am putting all this down in shorthand 
“between times.” Shorthand was the entering wedge with 
which I made by debut into the world of business and I still 
have a sort of affection for the curves and hooks and dashes. 

There is a letter on my desk from a new local manager. She 
writes that she is a “very ambious woman, but easy to dis- 
gorge.” Marie, who is something of a linguist, translates it as 
meaning that she is an “ambitious woman, but easily discour- 
aged.” 

Another new one writes: “I am thirty years old. I have a 
husband and build fences.” I am in doubt as to who builds the 
fences; and anyhow, why should she tell us about it? 

But these are exceptions. The great majority of our local 
managers, are educated women — women who stand well in their 
respective territories, and who handle our business there, with 
credit to us and to themselves — and in a few days, now, I shall 
know something of just how easy or how difficult it is to enlist 
them. 

Lola is making eyes at the postman, but Lola can’t help it. 
She was born flirting. 

The Doctor has on his brown suit this morning. It just 
matches the brown of his hair. He looks very handsome. Love 
is working its magic with him, too. When I asked him just 
now, how it happened that he had remained a bachelor all these 
years, he said he merely hadn’t found his ideal until now. 

It sounds easy enough, surely. 

But here is Signe with an extra note book and three newly 
sharpened pencils. I never have to wait for Signe to sharpen her 
pencils. „ She always has them ready. 

I will straighten out tangles now, real and imaginary, for the 


Would I Travel ? 


37 


next three hours, and then, with a clear conscience, go out to 
lunch with the other five. 

We will considerately place Lady Edith and the Doctor to- 
gether, and then we’ll all be too busy for a few minutes to say 
very much; but when the table is cleared, Mr. Wells will smoke 
and talk, and he and Mr. Chance will tell us a lot of interesting 
things that happened when the business was in its swaddling 
clothes; when the cash drawer, at times, contained but one dol- 
lar which they divided equally, and then lived mostly on hope 
till the next dollar arrived. 

It is like a page from a story book, and that is what it is — 
and a most intense and interesting page, too, from the life 
story of these two men. 

Madge has just made Sammy an all-night visit. 

“Now, how in the world can you write a book about the pro- 
saic people you see every day?” she asked. “Why, you must 
have imaginary people for a book. They must be unusual and 
do rare, strange things. They must rant and rave and tear their 
hair — and I don’t believe you can induce a single one of us to 
act in any such fashion. Still, you might have Lola and Johnny 
do something thrilling — in the story, you know. Why not make 
them elope and then turn us all loose on their trail. Telegraph 
the police. Chase them in aeroplanes. Run them to cover, and 
then, rather than to be separated, make them leap from the pier 
into the cold cruel depths of Lake Michigan, where they die in 
each other’s ar-r-ms!” 

“Ooh-ooh-oo-o!” wailed Sammy. “You’ve broken my heart! 
Such pathos! such eloquence! I fear you are not long for this 
sorrowful plane, Madge, dear. Heaven is your home. And 
Oh ! I shall be so lonely without you !” 

“Now — now — now) — ” soothingly, “cheer up, little girl, cheer 
up. ‘The worst is yet to come,’ as they say in the funny (?) 


38 


A Romance of the Road 


papers. By the way, this new kimono of yours is a good fit for 
me except in length. But I can easily remedy that by making a 
tuck in it. I have a peg in my closet at home to hang it on.” 

“Speaking of things happening or not happening,” said 
Sammy, opening a drawer of her dressing table, “listen to what 
Oswald has to say on that very subject. You see,” she explained, 
“I always keep his newest letter here so as to read it while curl- 
ing my hair. I know every word of it then by the time the next 
one comes.” 

“And you confess it unblushingly. Tell me, Sammy,” se 
verely, “how long will it be before his bleeding scalp is keeping 
company with the other trophies hanging at your reeking belt? 
Away! Savage! Away! There is Phil’s curly pate, Bob’s 
dark locks, Robin’s raven tresses, Rolla’s picturesque red-top, 
and others too numerous for numerals. And soon we shall see 
Oswald’s wavy, auburn waves swelling the number.” 

“But you won’t. I tell you, Madge, it’s different this time.” 

“Alas! I’ve heard that before, thou fickle goddess!” 

“Fickle! Haven’t I been true to you, for lo! these many 
years? And doesn’t that speak volumes for my enduring con- 
stancy? And my reward is to be scolded and called names. 
Who said the world is round? It’s a mistake. The world is 
hollow!” and Sammy locked the letter in the drawer. 

“I take it all back — every word of it, and ‘wish I’d said more 
so as to have more to take back,’ quoting again from the said 
funny ( ?) papers. Do read the letter to us, Sammy. What did 
he say about things happening?” 

“Oh, nothing much,” airily. “I’m sure it wouldn’t interest 
you.” 

“Yes, it would, Sammy. Time hangs rather heavily since 
Mark and I have made up, and if Oswald can comfort one for 
dullness, let’s have it.” 


Would I Travel ? 


39 


And Sammy read: 

"P 011 ’* y? u ever complain, dear girl, if nothing seems to happen. 
Rather be thankful that you are permitted to go on in the sameness 
you complain about, and don’t see it as colorless, for nothing is ever 
colorless. The quiet and the monotony of the little things you daily 
see and do, are all a part of the great structure of your life, and all 
are taking you step by step toward one great fulfillment. Life is 
full of the little things, and if we miss the beauty of their signifi- 
cance, we shall not be prepared for the great climax. 

“Let me tell you a story about some of the ‘little things:' 

“Once upon a time a youth and a young girl were in the same 
school. The youth was twenty-two. He was earning his way 
through college. He studied all day and gave violin lessons at 
night. 

“The maid, just from high-school, still wore her frocks to her 
shoe-tops and her hair in a long braid with a big bow on the end 
of it. 

“They were hard students, these two, and were too busy, each, 
to scarcely see the other. 

“There was a lot of sameness in that college, for it was work, 
work, work, from morning to night, and to those who were looking 
only for the other side of college life, it soon became monotonous. 
They dropped out. 

“But these two were there for a purpose. They accepted the 
sameness of it all for the sake of this purpose. One day he ven- 
tured to bring her a bunch of wood violets, and when she thought 
he wasn’t looking, she put them to her lips. And she fastened some 
of them in her fair hair, and somehow each knew that all this mo- 
notonous digging had had another and a sweeter purpose than they 
had, at first, dreamed. 

“Just remember all that, Sammy, dear, and be thankful for the 
even tenor of your present way. It all means something. To some, 
it is the way to fortune; to some, it means fame; to some, love. 

“And, do you remember, Sammy, when the youth and maiden 
said goodbye? The apple trees that grew all about the old dormi- 
tory building, were in bloom. The maid had put on her pretty rose- 
pink dimity in honor of this last evening. 

“We decided — there! the secret is out — we decided we should not 
bind ourselves or each other by promises. We would each be at 
liberty to choose elsewhere if we wished. But at the end of three 
years, if neither had chosen, we would meet again. 

“And now, the third year will be ended in a few more moons, 


40 


A Romance of the Road 


and I am reminding you again. We have not written often until 
this last year. That was a part of the pact. We have wandered in 
other gardens and have felt free to pluck the flowers that grew 
there if we wished. Once for a whole year I almost forgot you, 
just as you did me, and then I awoke with a start, to realize that 
it was a year lost, except that nothing is ever really lost; it was 
just another step in the general monotony of the things that lead 
up to the great consummation of a life.” 

“And so, before long, I shall look into your eyes and we shall 
know why we have waited.” 

Madge, always emotional, blinked hard to keep back the 
tears. “And do you mean to tell me, Sammy, that all this seem- 
ing fickleness of yours has had something genuine in it?” she 
demanded. 

“Every single time, Madge, so far as I could discover, I was 
desperately in earnest at first, or, until the scales fell from my 
eyes and I found myself as far away as ever from my ideal. 
And every single time it was a fearful disappointment, too.” 

“And the thought of Oswald was always back of it?” 

“Possibly so; but not consciously. Really and truly, Madge, 
I almost forgot him, just as he says in the letter.” 

“Three years often brings a lot of changes. Suppose you find 
Oswald, also, a disappointment?” 

“If I do, I shall give it up and just settle down to spinster- 
hood. I’ll go on the stage and never look at another man.” 

“That would, indeed, bring you a secluded life, free from 
manly attentions. Three years! Do you know, Sammy, all 
this time, while you and Oswald have been trying out your the- 
ory, and testing yourselves, Mark and I have gone right along 
together, neither turning to the right nor to the left. We have 
taken it for granted that we wanted just each other. We 
haven’t even peeked over the fence into another garden, nor ex- 
perimented the least little bit. I suppose your plan was the 
right one for you, and ours for us. And after all, it might be 


Would I Travel? 


4i 


tliat a book about the commonplace, every-day occurrences, of 
the real people, of the every, days could make the telling of an 
interesting story.” 


CHAPTER VI 


A WOMAN TRAVELIN' MAN 

Hoxie, Ark, May i. 

Just forty-eight hours ago, I left Chicago, and every step of 
the way, we traveled in a blinding Spring storm. The rain 
simply poured in torrents. This morning the clouds are still 
lowering and I am told that Black river is out of its banks, and 
that many miles of swampland between here and Pocahontas, 
are under water, and how I am to reach that village, is more 
than I am, at present, able to say. 

I sent a lettergram to Mr. Wells last evening. I used all 
the words allowable, and expressed as forcefully as possible, the 
conditions. And just a moment ago, I received the heartless 
reply, “We don’t want weather reports. Send us contracts,” 
signed “Wells and Chance.” 

“The mean things!” And then I laughed before I had time 
to be angry. I see their meaning. I am simply to rise above 
material difficulties. I am a commercial traveler now, and must 
take the fare of the road, whether pleasant or otherwise, and 
they wish me to see this from the beginning and to make good 
on my own account and on my own responsibility. 

One day, at lunch, Esther’s mother, just in from a long trip, 
was the guest. Mr. Wells was making some ineffectual ef- 
forts to fish out, w 7 ith the straw, a cherry that was left from his 
lemonade, presumably for me, as I said I wanted it, when the 

42 


A Woman Travelin’ Man 


43 


guest came to his rescue with a spoon, fished out the cherry, — 
and ate it herself. 

“There, now, Mrs. Von.,” said Mr. Wells, “you see what 
comes of depending upon some one else when you want a thing. 
A competitor simply walks in and gobbles the cherry.” 

This little episode came to me upon reading the message. 

“All right, Mr. Wells and Mr. Chance,” I said, looking 
Chicago-ward, “I’ll show you who gets the cherry. You’ll re- 
ceive no more weather reports from me. I’ll go to Pocahontas, 
if I have to swim every step of the way.” 

I will record in my note-book from that point, just how I 
really did reach that little city. 


Pocahontas, Ark., May 2. 

I rode on a hand-car. Or, rather, to be perfectly exact, I sat 
on the little square car that was pushed in front of a hand car. 

With me, were two other ladies, two men, and the Pocahon- 
tas mail bags. We ladies sat well up on the bags and drew our 
feet up on the car, as we came to the swamp, to keep them out 
of the water. 

• Everywhere, it was raging, and in some places it seemed very 
deep. It made me dizzy, and, not aspiring to a watery grave in 
Black river, I looked up at the trees and at the distant hills, and 
thought of the dear ones I had left behind. 

At times it all seemed very unreal. Then, again, it would 
seem that I had always known it, and I would wonder whether, 
just a few short hours before, I had really heard the noise of the 
great city, or whether I had listened always to the roar of 
waters swirling round the trees of a great dismal swamp, 
through which the railroad grade had braved its doubtful and 
often disputed way. 

And then I would be brought back to reality by the jest 


44 


A Romance of the Road 


and laughter of the limited section crew, manipulating the 
machinery that pushed us through the water. They were com- 
pelled to stop every few miles for a breathing spell, when they 
would smoke and speculate as to how many days it would be 
before the train could run. 

Truly, it was a most unique experience for me ; but then, I am 
new on the road. 

Through it all, I was not nearly so frightened as I am right 
now, over the thought of that contract I came after. 

W , May 5. 

I didn’t get it, and I’m discouraged. I would resign this min- 
ute, but I don’t want to be a quitter — and besides, I really have 
to work and can’t afford to quit. 

I made the push-car trip in safety back to Hoxie, and from 
there, I journeyed to a neighboring state. The long jump was 
necessary, because we have representatives in the towns between. 
“Pocahontas is the only point down that way, that is open for a 
new appointment, and I wouldn’t mfss this opportunity to have 
it supplied for a good deal.” That is what Mr. Wells had said 
to me, — and to think that I failed ! 

My head aches. I almost believe I am ill. 

I shall never be impatient with our travelers again. It isn’t 
so easy as it looks, this traveling for a living. Up in Pocahon- 
tas, people kept saying to me, “Now if you could offer me a nice, 
easy position like yours, I might consider it. It must be delight- 
ful to travel round.” 

And I would smilingly agree that it was delightful (for 
wasn’t I having a perfectly hilarious time?) , and that the position 
I had to offer was the first step toward this very desirable 
position of mine. 

How I did talk and how I did work. Why I failed I can’t 


A Woman Travelin’ Man 


45 


imagine. Maybe I talked too much. There was something 
wrong somewhere. Maybe it was the fear I felt. I was simply 
scared to death, lest I should fail, — and sure enough, I did. 

“The thing I feared has come upon me.” Wasn’t it Job who 
made that remark? 

I wonder if that breakfast bell is ever going to ring? I’ve 
been up two hours. 

This village is just a wide place in the road. Last evening 
when I arrived and presented myself at the hotel, the landlady 
looked at me over, under and through her glasses, her glance 
each time, resting longest on my sample case. 

“I reckon you must be a woman travelin’ man,” she said at 
last. 

I laughed, for I saw that no offense was intended, and she 
smiled responsively. “I’ve heard that women is drummers now- 
adays, same as men,” she continued, thoughtfully. “But you 
are the first that’s stopped here. Anything I c’n do fer ye?” 

“Give me something to eat and a room for the night,” I re- 
plied. 

She stared as if she didn’t understand and I repeated my re- 
quest. “I shore don’t know jist what to do with you,” shaking 
her head, “I’ve only kept men.” 

“Do with me! Don’t do anything with me but what I’ve 
asked.” I was tired and was about to lose patience. “I will 
pay you your price. My money is as good as anybody’s, I sup- 
pose.” 

“I reckon so,” she assented, “only it sort of dumbfounders me. 
A woman travelin’ man ! But, say ! Ain’t it great that women 
are a-findin’ out that they can do things?” 

She carried a paper-covered novel in her hand. “Dory 
Thorne,” she announced, “My man is a-readin’ it ’n I was 
a-lookin’ over it while nu’ssin’ my toothache. Dory shore seems 


46 


A Romance of the Road 


to be havin’ a time of it. I ain’t sayin’ but what it purty nigh 
serves her right fer marryin’ one o’ them there earlhams or duke- 
doms or whatever you call ’em, but I’m sorry for her jist the 
same, and I shore hope she’ll come out alright.” As she left 
me she encountered her lord and master in the hall. 

“You don’t expect to let ’er stay here all night, do ye?” 
“Sh-h-h!” 

“I don’t keer if she does hear me. I don’t want no sech trash 
in my house. Ain’t you got enough sense to know that no decent 
woman is a-goin’ around travelin’? She’s out o’ her speer. 
’Sides she’s holdin’ a position that some man orter hev. This 
here is a man’s world, I’m here to tell ye — yessir! A man’s 
world! Women ain’t no business tryin’ to crowd in the way 
they’re a doin’.” 

“Uh-huh, so that’s the trouble is it?” The landlady’s voice 
was low and trembly. “Holdin’ a position that some man ought 
to have. Do you think, Hiram, that you could hold her posi- 
tion? I’ve always noticed that the man who can’t do things or 
won’t do things hisself, does the most hollerin’ if he sees a 
woman tryin’ to do something that he thinks ain’t her place to 
do — an’ the less a man knows, the more competent he believes 
hisself, to tell just exactly what a woman’s place in this here 
world is. It’s time some of you men folks was wakin’ up to the 
fact that women can do somethin’ else ’sides pick cotton or take 
in washin’, and if you really don’t want to see a woman doin’ 
something that is, shore ’nuff, out of her speer, s’pose you try 
cuttin’ the wood fer me to git supper with. An’ mebbe you 
might carry the slop to the hawgs an’ help me with the milkin’. 
It was twelve o’clock last night afore I got to bed. You had 
been asleep three hours. I reckon, Hiram, that this here lady’ll 
sleep right here in this hotel tonight, an’ I’ve gave her the best 
room in the house, too.” 


A Woman Travelin’ Man 


47 


May io. 

Ten whole days and not a single contract. I’m almost panic- 
stricken. Still, I know there is a reason somewhere for these 
failures, and surely I can find it and correct it. Town after 
town I have visited — and failure after failure I have recorded. 

Now, I know there is nothing wrong with the proposition I 
have to offer. Indeed, knowing as I do, just how really good 
it is, I am surprised that I do not have unsolicited applications, — 
more of them than I could possibly accept. 

And right here comes that almost conviction : That I am too 
anxious and too fearful. To-day, I had a prospect all ready to 
sign up, but I either said too much or too little, just at the psy- 
chological moment — and she didn’t sign. The fault must have 
been mine. I was so fearful, lest she would not sign, that she 
didn’t. 

Now, inasmuch as I am able to see that the fault is mine, I 
believe there is hope for me. 

I suppose I looked discouraged when I reached the hotel this 
afternoon, and I was tired and warm, and stopped to sit on the 
bench under the big live-oak in the front yard to rest and cool. 

A man was on the veranda. He brought me a fan. I saw 
he meant it in the very kindliest way and I accepted it gratefully. 
I knew from that indescribable something about him, that he was 
a commercial traveler. I knew, also, intuitively, that he was a 
gentleman. 

“Did you ever hear this story?” he began pleasantly. “Once 
upon a time, Satan made a pretense of going out of business, and 
advertised his tools for sale. People came from far and near to 
inspect them and possibly to buy. On a great table, he had on 
conspicuous display, the implements, ‘Malice,’ ‘Hatred,’ ‘Vice,’ 
etc., and to one side, as if to accentuate its importance, there was 
a wedge-shaped instrument marked up to a price that was be- 


48 


A Romance of the Road 


yond the reach of the whole universe. It was labeled ‘Discour- 
agement/ and Satan explained that, with this one tool left to 
him, he did not need the others, because all he needed to do, was 
to just discourage a man or woman, and they were like clay in 
his hands, to be molded as he chose. ‘So subtle and wily, is this 
entering wedge/ declared he, ‘that even the most righteous do 
not recognize it as mine. This is the one tool that I will not 
part with, until I am truly ready to give up my kingdom.’ 

“Now, you just tell his Satanic Majesty,’ he continued, “to 
take himself off. Don’t let him come round you with any of his 
hard luck stories. He’ll have you believing all sorts of things, 
if you do, madam. He’ll make you resign. He’ll keep you as 
blue as indigo. Remember, the world is ready to laugh with 
you, but you’ll never wring from it, one single tear.” 

“How did you happen to succeed?” I asked, and he laughed 
so heartily that I almost joined in on the chorus. 

“I could tell you better, now, why I didn’t,” said he. 

“But you did!” 

“Of course I did, after a time, else I couldn’t have stayed on 
the job for twenty years. You mustn’t imagine, though, that 
I did it easily.” 

“Why didn’t you? What is it that makes for success in sales- 
manship ? What is the most essential requirement ?” I was all 
eagerness. Perhaps right here my problem was going to be 
solved. 

“Well,” he replied, thoughtfully, “some claim that it is en- 
thusiasm; others, confidence. Some say it is will-power, and 
some say it is personal appearance.” 

“But what do you say it is?” 

“It is my belief, madam, that it is all of these and more. All 
of these are essentials; all of them are requisites; but a more 


A Woman T ravelin' Man 


49 


important one is to know your subject, to know it absolutely, 
from beginning to end, and then, — ” 

“And then, — ” 

“Be able to present it in the way that most appeals to the in- 
dividual you are soliciting; and it is this that is wholly unex- 
plainable. It is a sort of intuitive knowledge that puts you 
en rapport with your customer. You must be able to see his par- 
ticular and individual view point, and to see just what to say, to 
bring him to your way of thinking. And you must be so honest 
in your own belief, and so earnest, that you create a desire 
within your prospect for this thing that you so believe in your- 
self. And you must know just when you have said enough. 
The first month I was on the road, when I had talked a ‘prospect’ 
into the notion of buying, I at once proceeded to talk him out of 
it. I didn’t know just when I had said exactly enough ; and I 
was scared, too, — frightened clean out of my senses, when I 
attempted an interview.” 

“Did you want to quit?” 

“Did I ?” he laughed. “I should think I did. I telegraphed 
my resignation. The manager called me a big, yellow-backed 
quitter, and said if I came back he’d shoot me. 

“Now, whatever you do, madam, don’t worry. Remember, 
there is always another day coming. Just profit by your mis- 
takes and stick, and once you strike the responsive chord, you’ll 
find it easy next time. It’s like learning to swim or to skate. 
It’ll come all of a sudden, so sudden, that you will be dazed, 
but once you’ve done it, you’ll do it again. It isn’t always the 
traveler who succeeds from the very beginning that keeps up the 
record. Remember that.” 

Somehow I felt better. Here was an old-timer, twenty years 
on the road, exuding success at every pore, and yet he hadn’t 
found it easy in the beginning. 


50 


A Romance of the Road 


M. May 12. 

Joy! Glory! Hallelujah! I’ve did it. I mean I’ve doned 
it. No! — No! — Well, I don’t know just what I do want to 
say, but anyhow I have a contract and have telegraphed the 
joyful news to headquarters. 

I’m dead tired, but I’m happy. Goodnight. 

I don’t know just exactly to whom I am saying good-night. 
Perhaps it is to the miller, singeing his wings at my kerosene 
lamp; perhaps to the mosquitoes that are trying to force their 
v/ay through the meshes of the net at the window; maybe it is 
to the frogs in the swamp, to whose music I shall soon fall 
asleep. 

Anyhow, I’m saying it, and I feel comforted, and not nearly 
so lonely as I have been all these other nights since I left 
Chicago. 






CHAPTER VII 


at miss Delia’s 


G. , May 25. 

Success is a wonderful tonic. I have gained five pounds in the 
last two weeks. And I’m enjoying my work. If it were not 
for the laddie and the lassie I left behind, I think I should ask 
to remain out all Summer. 

Since the cloud of defeat has lifted, I can look about me and 
enjoy some of the beauties of the beautiful Southland. 

These forests of the longleafed pine — but why should mere 
mortal attempt their description? They are more beautiful, 
more stately, more awe-inspiring, than anything written or ver- 
bal, ever led me to imagine, which goes to show how inadequate 
are mere words. Not a shrub of underbrush mars the perfect 
beauty of the towering giants which reach heavenward to an 
almost unbelievable height. I love to stand beneath them and 
listen to the rustling in the breeze so far above me, and try to 
fathom the meaning of their gently weird moaning — the “sigh- 
ing of the pines.” 

If I were a hopeful lover, I think I should like to woo my 
sweetheart in such a place : there is something so in tune with 
love. If I were a rejected lover, I think I should come here to 
sob my heart out: there is something so in tune with anguish. 
If I were weary, I should come here for rest. If I were fresh 
and vigorous and rested, I should love such a place for its in- 
spiration. 


51 


5 * 


r A Romance of the Road 


Just a few days ago, I saw the beautiful Spanish moss for the 
first time. It suddenly burst upon my view as I looked from 
the train window. There was a stretch of forest most fantasti- 
cally draped with it, and, save for the sombreness of the festoon- 
ing, the trees reminded me of those we used to have at Christ- 
mas in the old school house when I was a child — and as a child 
I should have felt perfectly sure that this stretch of forest was 
the home of fairies and gnomes and other mysterious creatures 
of childhood’s dreams. I sort of suspected it, anyhow. I don’t 
know why we should give up the make-believes of childhood, 
merely that we may accept other make-believes not nearly so 
pretty or wholesome. 

And the magnolias! Here is where words fail me utterly. 
I can only humbly clasp my hands and gaze upon these tree-bou- 
quets of perfect, creamy, perfumed blossoms, and be glad that 
I’m alive. Truly, the far South is a land of wonder and mys- 
tery and romance to one whose home is a few hundred miles 
nearer to the top of the map. 

In a dream last night, I was at lunch with the office people, 
and was telling them about the beautiful things I saw while I 
was away. To some of them, the scenes described were not new, 
while others of them had never seen the jasmine, the magnolia, 
the Spanish moss and other wonders of the Southland, and I 
was discoursing upon them most volubly, when, in the very 
midst of it, I was rudely disturbed by a loud pounding on my 
door and a voice saying, pleadingly: 

“It’s twelve o’clock. Git up! Do git up and haul junk!” 

Really it is just a step from the sublime to the ridiculous. I 
couldn’t imagine why I should be required to get up at midnight 
to the performance of manual labor, and asked dazedly: “What 
junk?” 


At Miss Delia's 


53 


“Oh,” said the disturber, as he recognized a woman’s voice, 
and began straightway to pound on the door of my neighbor. 

“Git up! Git up! She’ll die afore mornin’ ’n I’ll lose my 
job.” 

My neighbor was a commercial traveler from St. Louis. “Go 
after the doctor, you idiot,” he said. “Don’t be wasting your 
time round here, waking everybody in the house. Is it the land- 
lady that’s sick?” 

“Oh!” said the disturber again in a disappointed tone. 

“Can’t you read numbers?” called a voice from below, “the 
engineer’s room is number three, I told you.” 

The entreaties were now carried to number three, and being 
wide awake by this time, I understood what he said: “Git up! 
Git up, and fix the dump. Quick! I’ve tore it all up an’ she’ll 
die afore mornin’ !” 

A medley of epithets and shoes were thrown at the disturber. 
Then there was a slamming of doors and the guests went back 
to their feather beds. 

“These darned thin walls !” growled the St. Louis “commer- 
cial.” “Why you can hear the fellow in the next room change 
his mind!” 

This morning I learned that the messenger was the lad who 
watches the switch engine while the engineer sleeps, and that 
his anguish was all about the engine, whose life, for some occult 
reason which I did not understand, was in dire danger. 

Feather beds are more in evidence each day. Some of them 
are so high and puffy, that one wishes for a step ladder. 

Hot biscuits are also much in vogue. The strongest advertise- 
ment a hotel can circulate down here, is an assurance that hot 
biscuits are served three times daily. 


54 


A Romance of the Road 


S , May 30. 

Success still smiles upon me, and I, consequently, am smiling 
at success and at other things of interest along the way. 

Mr. Wells writes me that my department at the office is run- 
ning smoothly. Sammy and Carl write me that they are taking 
care of each other and that Vesta cares for them both, in addi- 
tion to her many other housekeeping duties. And they are will- 
ing, they say, that I shall remain out another month, since Mr. 
Wells and Mr. Chance desire it. 

So here’s for another month of it. And here’s to the swing 
and joy of it! I love the very thought of it — Success upon the 
road. 

Gracious! I was almost frightened just then. I thought I 
was about to write a poem — had I been Sammy or Madge I 
should never have escaped it! — but where is a jollier theme? If 
I could put my thoughts in verse, surely I should paint the sor- 
rows and joys of the commercial traveler in rhyme. It is an in- 
spiring theme, full of surprises, disappointments, successes, fail- 
ures, competition, clear-sightedness, quick action, good fellow- 
ship. I am beginning to see why a successful commercial trav- 
eler remains a traveler. Once the germ of it gets into the blood, 
it isn’t easily eradicated. There is a freedom and a joyousness 
about it that finds a responsive chord in all humanity — the chord 
that is nomadic in origin, and which, no matter how civilized 
we may have become, is lurking somewhere within us. This is 
why we fish and camp vacations. We think it is because we 
wish to rest ; it is really because we wish a taste of the primeval. 

But to return to the living present : 

If I fail to put this town (I wouldn’t dare mention any 
names) , and some of my experiences in it, in this story, I shall 
always feel that it is lacking something. 

This is Miss Delia Mopper’s hotel. It is the only hotel in 


At Miss Delia's 


55 


town, hence the best one. And they have hot biscuits three 
times a day as is the habit of these best hotels. Last evening 
upon my arrival, Miss Delia, herself, met me at the door. 

“Here, Andy,” said she, taking my grip from the porter, “I’ll 
carry the lady upstairs, myself.” They always “carry” you 
down here. 

“Who-all you runnin’ fer?” asked Miss Delia. I told her. 
Long ago I learned to know what was meant when asked who 
I was “runnin’ fer.” 

“You-all married?” was the next question. 

“I’m a widow.” 

“A widder! How long you bin that-a-way?” 

Miss Delia’s tone and words were unmistakable. My condi- 
tion, in her opinion, was truly pitiable, almost disgraceful. 

“How long you been that-a-way?’ she repeated. 

“Fifteen years.” 

“Fifteen years!” she gasped. “Can’t you help it? And you 
ain’t such a awful bad lookin’ woman either — leastways I’ve 
seen ’em wuss lookin’ than you, to git married in fifteen days, 
let alone fifteen years. Widders is awful pop’lar down here. 
I’d like to be one myself. How old air ye?” 

I told her. 

“La! now! you don’t look it. Widders never do. Say! 
there’s a man a-boardin’ with me that’s jest a-sp’ilin’ fer a wife. 
I’ll see what I can do fer ye. We have supper at eight o’clock, 
but we’re all in the office now, waitin’, all the regulars, an’ the 
transients air expected to jine.” 

I knew what that meant, and knew I couldn’t afford to let 
them put me down as “stuck-up.” 

Miss Delia put her head in at the door again — “Wuz it the 
doctor or the lawyer that made you that-a-way?” 

“ What-a-way ?” I asked, trying to be facetious. 


56 


A Romance of the Road 


'Why, a widder 


Come on down as soon’s 


you can.” 

I was tired and wished I might lie down till supper time, but 
I put on a clean collar and went down to the office. Miss Delia, 
with much ceremony, introduced me all round. 

Among them was a stranger, another transient. Miss Delia 
had never seen him before, but she asked his name, and “made 
me acquainted” with him. 

Instantly, I recognized the traveler who had told me the 
Satan story and had encouraged me to stick. I saw also, that 
he recognized me, but his acknowledgment of Miss Delia’s in- 
troduction was formal in the extreme. 

At supper, I sat opposite an eagle-beaked young man, who 
kept up more than his end of the conversation. On either side 
of him, was Mr. Dumpty, a Rocky Point farmer (Miss Delia 
had given out this information when introducing me), and Mr. 
Section, the section boss. She had remarked, at the same time, 
upon the name and the vocation of this boarder. 

To my right, was a lady with a thin line for a mouth which 
turned down at the corners. She was a young woman, not more 
than twenty-five, but the sallowness of snuff and swamp had 
already overtaken her. 

On my left, was the boy, Andy, who worked half time at the 
saw mill, and served as porter the other half, for his keep at 
Miss Delia’s. Miss Delia, herself, sat at the head of the table, 
and near her was the Other Traveler. 

“Sellin’ somethin’?” asked Mr. Section, the section boss, as 
he passed me the biscuits. 

“Yes.” 

“You-all ever been here afore?” asked Mr. Dumpty, the 
Rocky Point farmer. 



At Miss Delia's 


57 


“How do you like the town ?’ 

“I — I haven’t seen it yet” 

“How long you goin’ to stay ?” 

“Till the next train leaves, which I believe, is to-morrow even- 
ing.” 

“Yes,” put in the eagle-beaked young man, “a feller has shuah 
’nuff got to stay a spell when he once gits here. One train one 
way a day on this branch, an’ the town too fer away from other 
places to do much drivin’.” 

And here he was quiet a moment while he carefully licked his 
knife preparatory to helping himself to butter. He was very 
careful to lick it clean. 

Some of the others had left molasses and gravy on the butter, 
so that the next one found it necessary to scrape off the smeared 
places or to avoid them. But the eagle-beaked young man had 
been brought up to better manners. 

I tried as I have often tried before to forget the print of the 
soiled knives and even the slick place made by the knife well 
licked, and to cut out a small piece from the very top where the 
print of the pound mold was still visible; I saw a twinkle of 
amusement light the eyes of the Other Traveler and noticed 
now that his eyes were brown and that he wore glasses. In the 
very same moment the twinkle was gone and he, himself, was 
looking for a clean place on the butter. 

Mr. Dumpty, the Rocky Point farmer, was devouring mouth- 
fuls of carefully cut-up pork and bread which he shoveled in 
with his knife, and Mr. Section, the section boss, was employing 
the same method to finish a piece of cake, he had taken from the 
tall glass cake stand with his fork. “Mis’ Blakey’s baby died 
this evenin’ ” he announced. 

“Shuah ’nuff?” said Miss Delia, “I knowed it’d never be 
raised when k cut its fu’st teeth. They was uppers,” 


5 « 


A Romance of the Road 


“You cain’t always tell by that,” said Mr. Section, the sec- 
tion boss. “I ricollect hearin’ my mother say that my fu’st ones 
was uppers.” 

“Signs shuah ’nuff will fail sometimes,” admitted Miss Delia, 
“but speakin’ of deaths, ain’t it awful about Alviry Allen dyin’ ? 
When is the funeral?” 

“Day after tomorrow evenin’ at two o’clock. It shore is too 
bad, leavin’ all them little children,” said Mr. Section, the sec- 
tion boss. 

Everybody was silent for a moment, and I found myself 
thinking again of that last -question Miss Delia had asked me 
upstairs. Every little while I had thought of it — and at that 
moment her meaning dawned upon me. 

Really if you just give me time I can figure out and see 
through almost any sort of a joke; that it was really a joke I 
haven’t the slightest doubt. 

Then I came back from Joke-land to ordinary old earth, and 
heard the eagle-beaked young man saying, “Looks like I cain’t 
git this here sore cyored up,” and he pushed up his sleeve baring 
his arm for our inspection. “Does it look any better, Miss Dely, 
d’ye think?” 

“It looks right smart inflamed yet,” said Miss Delia. “Do 
you know anything good for sech a place?” she inquired, turn- 
ing to me. 

“I’m afraid not,” I replied. 

“Purty nigh ever’body tells him something,” she said in a 
half-injured tone. 

“He might try a liniment,” I suggested weakly. 

“When I wuz a boy,” said Mr. Dumpty, “I got p’izened 
right bad on my laig in the blackberry patch, and nothin’ done 
it any good but chawed terbacker. Ever tried chawed ter- 
backer?” 


At Miss Delia's 


59 


“Yes,” replied the eagle-beaked young man, “I’ve tried just 
about ever’thing.” 

There was some more appetizing discussion, and then, helping 
ourselves to toothpicks we returned to the office. I tried to ex- 
cuse myself to Miss Delia but she wouldn’t hear to my missing 
this chance to get better acquainted. “It’s alius better for stran- 
gers to be friendly, like,” she said. 

The eagle-beaked young man sat on the table that held the 
lamp and plied his toothpick. “This here holler tooth is right 
smart of a bother,” he remarked, as he calmly surveyed a grain 
of “ro’s’en-ears” which he had laboriously dislodged, and as 
calmly put it back in his mouth that it might join its fellows. 
“Never did like ro’s’en-ears, no-how,” he added presently. 
“Ain’t got no taste to ’em ’cordin’ to my way o’ thinkin’. Jest 
taste kinder as if yer foot wuz asleep.” 

Mr. Dumpty, the Rocky Point farmer, and Mr. Section, the 
section boss, each sat on a splint-bottomed chair, tipped back 
against the wall, and each was soon laboring with a bulging 
bunch in his cheek, taking turns in aiming streams of “long 
green” or “navy” juice at the stove. The eagle-beaked young 
man, satisfied that there were no more treasures worth digging 
for, joined them. 

The woman with the thin line for a mouth picked her teeth 
and cleaned her finger nails w T ith the same sharpened goose quill. 
Then presently when she felt the men were not looking, she 
surreptitiously exchanged the quill for a small stick which she 
chewed to a brush on one end. Then this brush was turned 
round and round in a little tin box which was partially con- 
cealed in her left hand. Meanwhile she was gazing innocently 
and pensively, almost piously, at the ceiling. 

When the brush had been transferred to her mouth she slyly 


6o 


A Romance of the Road 


passed the box to Miss Delia, who produced a little brush and 
went through a similar performance. 

After these preliminaries, the ladies lost all embarrassment 
about the matter, and openly joined the men in their onslaught 
upon the inoffensive stove. “For,” said Miss Delia, “we jest 
as well enj’y our snuff, as the men their terbacker,” and nobody 
disputed her. 

“That pore ol’ stove!” said Mr. Section, the section boss, 
waxing eloquent. “Why don’t you put it away, Miss Dely, and 
let it rest this summer, ’stead o’ leavin’ it thar with its feet in 
its bed o’ sawdust, patiently endurin’ our insults? Wouldn’t 
su’prise me if it wuz to r’ar up on its hind legs any minute and 
give us a cu’ssin’.” 

“Law! Mr. Section, you do say such funny things,” simpered 
Miss Delia. 

“Well,” said Mr. Dumpty, the Rocky Point farmer, “I 
reckon I’d better be tearin’ out fer home. I’m takin’ keer of old 
Jamison’s stock fer him while he’s away. Ain’t much to do but 
to change their pastur’ ever’ few days, and watch the ticks off of 
’em. Still it’s right smart of a job, and gits me up right soon 
of mornin’s, sometimes.” 

“Purty hogs, you’ve got, Mr. Dumpty,” said Mr. Section, the 
section boss. 

“Purty tol’able,” admitted Mr. Dumpty, modestly. “I ’low 
to butcher ’em myself.” 

“Shuah ’miff?” asked Miss Delia. 

“Yes. It’s a great savin’. Ever’ scrap can be used, even to 
the in’ards fer soap grease, when you butcher ’em you’self.” 

“It’s shuah ’nuff a great savin’,” agreed Miss Delia. “I’ve 
just been a thinkin’, Mr. Dumpty that you might as well stay 
all night with us. You can sleep with Andy here jest as well 
as not.” 


At Miss Delia's 


61 


“Mr. Dumpty is the man I was tellin’ you that wants a wife,” 
whispered Miss Delia in the hall, as I said goodnight. 

“Why don’t you take him, Miss Delia?” I asked. 

“Why you see,” blushing, “thar’s Mr. Section, the section 
boss in the way.” 

How very tired I was. I didn’t even notice until afterward 
that the bed of feathers was inconveniently higher than any I 
had previously slept in. I just dropped into the puffy heap and, 
at the same time, into the dreamless slumber of the weary “com- 
mercial,” — dreamless, save for a pair of eyes that constantly 
came and went in a most perplexing manner. 

Throughout the entire night, I saw them. And they were 
brown. And they had a twinkle in them. 


CHAPTER VIII 


thar’s others 


May 31. 

I’m still at Miss Delia’s. The train did its best to get out 
this evening but the engine was less willing. It balked a mile 
out of town and stubbornly refused to go another step. In 
vain did the enginemen coax and wheedle. It had made up its 
mind to come back, and back we came. So, I’m telling you 
about Mr. Dumpty while still in Mr. Dumpty’s native haunts. 

It happened this morning, right after breakfast, when he 
followed me out on the verandah, where, sample case in hand, 
I was just leaving for work. Right then and there I had an 
opportunity and lost it — an opportunity to change my three- 
syllable name to the classic one of Dumpty. 

*He offered me the privilege of raising chickens and selling 
eggs, of milking ten cows and marketing the butter, and gen- 
erously promised that I should have a dollar a week of the pro- 
ceeds for my own personal needs. 

Too bad I’m too busy to consider it. Somehow, fate, or 
something equally officious, always gets in my way when some- 
thing especially desirable comes along. 

“Well,” said Mr. Dumpty, when I told him, “I reckon I’d 
better be tearin’ out. Them cattle’ll be wantin’ their pastur’. 
You see,” smiling, “thar’s other women, heaps of ’em. ’Sides, 
I ain’t hardly got over the death of my last wife yit.” 

62 


Thar’s Others 


63 


Among the disappointed passengers who, in the engine’s opin- 
ion, hadn’t stayed long enough, and who, in spite of their pro- 
tests were unloaded at the box car which represents the pas- 
senger station of this enterprising city, was the Other Traveler. 

“Andy isn’t expecting us this time, it seems,” said he, taking 
my sample case, “and since we have been formally introduced, 
I’m sure it’s quite proper that we should walk down to Miss 
Delia’s together.” 

“I notice you are from Chicago,” he continued. “Funny 
about being a Chicagoan. Like diphtheria, or scarlet fever, it 
always leaves you with something.” 

“With what after-affect did it leave you?” I asked. 

“With a desire to get back to it. Once you drink from the 
waters of Lake Michigan, you’re never quite so happy any- 
where again, as in the Windy City.” 

“Do you go there often?” 

“Not often. It really doesn’t matter so very much to me, 
after all, so I give my share of that privilege to the married 
fellows.” 

We walked on a moment in silence, and then, “You’re suc- 
ceeding,” he remarked. 

“How do you know?” 

“It’s written all over you. I saw it the moment you entered 
the office, — at Miss Delia’s reception, you know,” and he smiled 
just a little. 

There were no transients, and the regulars had all suppered 
when we reached the hotel. 

Miss Delia, secretly delighted over the behavior of the engine, 
warmed up the coffee, put a few other left-overs on the table, 
and then left us to wait upon ourselves and each other; and 
really it wasn’t so bad. I almost think I could endure another 
such experience, for this Other Traveler is very entertaining. 


64 A Romance of the Road 

He’s just full of interesting information and knows how to tell 
it. 

When we couldn’t eat another mouthful, as an excuse for 
prolonging the meal, we joined the group in the office, where 
the men were settling the problems of the Nation with the ease 
of veteran statesmen and where Miss Delia and the woman with 
the thin line for a mouth were “piecing” quilts. 

Mr. Section’s eyes wandered toward Miss Delia. “Funny, 
ain’t it, how the ladies buy calico ’n t’ar it up ’n sew it to- 
gether again,” said he affectionately. 

Miss Delia simpered a little and delivered a center-shot of 
saliva at the still-enduring stove before she replied: 

“La! now, Mr. Section, you set as much store by ’em as any 
of us, I reckon — the quilts I mean.” 

“An’ the ladies, too,” declared Mr. Section, the section 
boss, boldly. “They’re the sweetest little ol’ tricks on earth, 
God bless ’em.” 

“And thar’s always a plenty of ’em, too, wherever you go,” 
said Mr. Dumpty, looking meaningly at me. I can see that 
I am not to imagine for one moment, that Mr. Dumpty is 
going to fret himself into an early grave just on my account. 

“Which means, as I interpret the matter,” remarked Mr. 
Section, the section boss, “that Goddelmighty likes to see a 
right smart sprinklin’ of the best there is.” 

The momentary silence that followed, was broken by a crash 
in the dining room. 

“It’s the hawgs, Miss Dely,” said Andy arming himself with 
the shovel. “They’ve done knocked over the table.” 

“Law sakes! Break their haids ’f ye can, Andy, an’ tell Sally 
to pick up the things. I reckon she stepped out a minute and 
forgot to fasten the back door. The onery critters! Ain’t 


Thar's Others 


65 


satisfied with jest the back yard, but they must crowd their- 
selves into the house. Knock ’em clean off’n the gallery, Andy.” 

“These here razor backs is as mean as p’izen, Miss Dely,” 
said Mr. Dumpty, thinking of the sleek red pigs in his own 
back yard, and mentally calculating the number before adding, 
“I’ll give you one o’ my kind o’ stock fer a start. Why you 
can fatten these here red hawgs on a pint o’ b’iled cotton seed 
a day. That’s the kind that makes the cash come rollin’ in, I’m 
here to tell ye.” 

“I’d shore ’nuff be tickled to git it, Mr. Dumpty. I reckon 
I’d set such store by it, I’d keep it fer a pet.” 

“Well, I reckon I better be tearin’ out,” said Mr. Dumpty, 
and he flatly refused to stay and sleep with Andy, though Miss 
Delia was most pressing in her invitation. 

“How many pigs is that which he’s goin’ to give you, Miss 
Dely?” asked Andy. “About five hundred, ain’t it?” 

“Nevah mind, nevah mind, Andy,” said Miss Delia. “Don’t 
talk about people ahind their backs. Mr. Dumpty means well, 
but he sets great store by them red pigs, and jest fergits some- 
times, like the rest of us.” 

June 1. 

I’m told that the engine has so far responded to the treat- 
ment administered, as to express its willingness to make the 
journey this evening, that we are scheduled to leave on time, 
and that everybody is warned to be promptly on hand, as this is 
one of the days that the train won’t wait, no matter who may 
be late. 

My trunk is at the station, my satchel is packed, and I am 
making these last notes of the day from Miss Delia’s hotel. 

At the breakfast table this morning, the usual appetizing and 


66 


A Romance of the Road 


cheerful conversation was carried on. Among the things dis- 
cussed, was the funeral of “Alviry” Allen. 

Business was practically suspended early this afternoon on 
account of it. I attended in company with Miss Delia. 
“Ever’body’s goin’,” she told me, “an’ strangers air expected, in 
this town, to show respect to our dead. ’Sides, the person you 
done business with here, is a cousin of Alviry’s, an’ in this 
country, ever’ little thing counts.” 

I knew what she meant and sacrificed my own inclination, 
for the sake of business interests. I am as much a believer, as 
are the heads of our company, that real business knows no 
personality, no personal likes or dislikes. The main standpoint, 
and the thing considered by a concern is, “What do our em- 
ployes produce?” This is not mercenary, but merely the right 
to expect certain things from those who regularly receive a pay 
check. 

My house rightfully expects certain things of me, and a wish 
to spare myself wasn’t any good reason for remaining quietly 
in my room this afternoon, when my doing so, might, in this 
village, be counted against me, in a business way, and thus 
against the firm I represent. 

And so, I went to Alviry Allen’s funeral. My customer saw 
me there, and I, with my firm, immediately went up one- 
hundred percent in that customer’s estimation. 

I did not feel called upon, however, to walk to the cemetery 
after the services at the church, and was on my way back to 
the hotel, when a little black-eyed woman overtook me. 

“I’ll walk a part of the way with you,” said she. “I saw 
you with Miss Dely an’ reckon you are stoppin’ at the hotel. 
Did you notice them pore, little, motherless children of Alviry’s ?” 

I told her I did. Indeed, their pitiful, little, scared faces, I 
shall not soon forget. 


Thar’s Others 


67 


"Seven of ’em,” continued the little black-eyed woman, “an’ 
two at home that was too young to come, one of ’em a baby two 
weeks old. The preacher said ‘The Lord gives and the Lord 
takes away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Now, they 
ain’t nobody b’lieves in the providence of God more’n I do, but 
I tell you, preachers is mistaken sometimes, same as the rest of 
us, an’ when he brought that over, I says, low like, ‘That’s al- 
right Lord, but the preacher’s mistaken, ’n ef I wuz you, I 
wouldn’t pay no ’tention to what he says. There’s others of 
us that’s ready to stand by you, and to say that this shore ain’t 
none o’ your doin’s.’ 

“People say I have some queer, wicked ideas sometimes. 
P’raps I have. But there was pore Alviry, married eleven 
years, an’ died the mother of nine children. Is it any wonder 
she died? 

“They was awful pore, Alviry an’ her husband was, an’ I 
don’t know what will become of her children, now she’s gone, 
an’ I don’t know what would ’ave become of ’em, if she had 
lived. They was too pore to take care of ’em. 

“Alviry was jest fifteen when she married, an’ now, after 
a few years of hardship, she’s dead. Do you call it the Lord’s 
will? Now, I ain’t sayin’ that big families ain’t alright, but 
circumstances alters cases. Alviry didn’t have no time to be a 
mother to her children. It wouldn’t ’a’ been quite so bad if 
her husband had been a well-to-do man and could ’a’ hired help 
for her. 

“Oh ! they don’t need to worry about this here race suicide, as 
they call it, so long as they’s so many people that know only how 
to do jest one thing — and that’s to bring little helpless children „ 
into the world.” 

I found Andy at the hotel. I was depressed by what I had 
seen and heard, and stopped a moment in the office to talk with 


68 


A Romance of the Road 


him. There is something about the boy’s thin, pale face, and 
big dark eyes, that interests me. Under favorable conditions, I 
am convinced that he could develop into something very dif- 
ferent from anything his present environments promise. 

I can read Andy’s future: He will follow the mill from 
place to place and while yet in his teens, he will marry a girl 
of some mill camp. They will set up housekeeping in a board 
shanty. Children will come rapidly, and the wolf will lay 
just outside the door, waiting its opportunity. It will threaten 
with an awful snarl when the breadwinner is ill a day and 
cannot drag his aching, malarial limbs to the mill. And then 
when the mill closes down some winter or when the breadwinner 
has a “spell” of jaundice or fever, it will show its hideous fangs 
at the door way, and, inch by inch, force its way inside where it 
inaugurates a reign of terror to last until conditions drive it 
outside once more, where it again takes its place in the door- 
yard, a terrible menace, waiting, always waiting. 

The wife, in a few years, will become faded and querulous 
from hardship and the breadwinner, bent and careworn. Upon 
their countenances there will be written a pitiable hopelessness, 
born of the hardness of their lives. It is hard to live without 
hope. 

From the window of the hotel office, I could see the great 
rough-coated logs, like huge monsters, creeping, one after an- 
other, from the pool, up to their doom in the grinding machin- 
ery, where they are hacked and hewed and sawed to pieces, 
their rough skins being carried on and up to a height of, per- 
haps, fifty feet, by a contrivance which drops them into a great 
yawning pit of consuming flame. 

The boy followed my gaze. “There won’t anybody work 
over there when it’s rainin’,” he said mysteriously. 

“Why not?” I asked. 


Thar’s Others 


69 


"It’s Joe Smith’s sperrit.” 

"What is?” 

"The noises. It was rainy and slippery, and the machinery 
got stuck what carries up the slabs, and Joe, he went up to fix 
it. His foot slipped, and he throwed up his arms and fell 
headfirst into the red hot pit. It’s iron an’ it’s fifteen foot high, 
and they couldn’t ’a’ got ’im out, even if there’d been a chance 
fer ’im, which there wasn’t. He screamed an’ groaned just 
awful fer a second or two, an’ now, ever time it rains, they 
can hear him just like they did that day. Funny you hadn’t 
heard of it. We’uns alius tell strangers about it, an’ do you 
know, some of ’em don’t seem to b’lieve it.” 

"Do you believe it Andy?” I asked. 

"I’ve heerd ’im!” he replied almost in a whisper. "You jest 
ask Miss Dely or Mr. Dumpty or any of ’em. They’ve heerd 
’im, too.” 


B. June 2. 

I think the whole town was down to see us off. Some of 
them had attended Alviry’s funeral and were on their way 
home. Others came with no excuse for being there, except 
that it was train time. All were there to experience the mild 
excitement of seeing us pull out and to speculate as to whether 
we would be coming back within an hour or two. The coming 
and the going of the train are the events of the day in the 

village of S. , and events of considerable social importance, 

too. The belles wear their best clothes, and the beaux shine 
their shoes for these occasions. There is banter and laughter, 
coquetting and repelling. The latest social happenings of the 
village are discussed, dates are made for future meetings, and 
the local swains keep a sharp lookout, lest some traveling 


70 


A Romance of the Road 


stranger shall come in for a share of bright-eyed glances. The 
box-car station was jammed and the crowd outside even thicker. 

I stood outside with Miss Delia, who assured me that she 
would keep the coffee hot, for like as not the engine would take 
another “turn” and she said she told Sally to not change my bed, 
for if I should come back, I could sleep on the same sheets and 
save washing. 

But the engine, contrary to the expectations of all these en- 
terprising citizens, didn’t take another “turn” and here I am at 
my next town in spite of them. I have had a good night’s rest 
and feel ready, this morning, for good work. 

What a genuine pleasure it is to feel that your efforts count 
for something. Surely there is a joy in work well done, for the 
very work’s sake. Often I have heard Mr. Chance say, that, to 
the true business man or woman, money is purely incidental. 
And it’s true. Money is the necessary and inevitable result of 
right action applied to a legitimate business, but the chief joy of 
it all comes in the applying and the successful working out of 
intelligent plans and worth-while ideas. 

Last evening, just before I left the train, the Other Traveler 
came in from the smoker to say goodbye, explaining that he 
went a little further on, to the next town. He gave me his 
card, and in pencil mark he had written on it, “Manchester, 
England.” And his name is Hubert Montford. I like it. 

“And I thought you were from Chicago,” I said. “There 
isn’t a thing about you that looks English.” 

“I’m glad of it. Not that I wish to be anything other than 
an Englishman, mind you, but I’m living in America. I’ve 
been employed for twenty years by an American firm. Amer- 
ica offered me a great deal more than England offered and 
has made good her promises. Why should I flaunt my nativity 
at good old Uncle Sam?” 


Thars Others 


7 1 


“But you said something about being a Chicagoan which made 
me think, ” 

“Yes, I know. I said it always left you with something. 
Well, I think it’s rather true. But I said it mostly to get even 
with the Chicagoan who said that about being an Englishman.” 

“Wasn’t the Chicagoan correct?” 

“Perhaps. It’s doubtful if one ever gets entirely over being 
an Englishman. But I’ll say this: If I were not an English- 
man, I should refuse to be anything but an American.” 

I almost forgave him for not being when he said that, and 
told him so as we said goodbye. 

I don’t suppose I shall ever see him again, and of course I 
don’t care ; still, — 


June 3. 

This glorious June weather is getting in my veins. I can 
sympathize with the man who said, “By nature I’m a vaga- 
bond.” I can’t see a country road from the car window with- 
out experiencing an inclination to follow it. I want to walk 
along between its grassy borders and have a word with the 
flowers that look up and smile at you from their green confines. 
I don’t wish to pluck them. They are happy where they are, 
and would only pine and die if I took them away. 

I just wish to listen to the “Call of the Wild” and to wander 
along, hand in hand, with nature, and see where the road will 
lead me. 

The Hoosier poet touches the right chord when he says 
“Rench my hair in the dew! and hold my coat! whoop out 
loud! and th’ow my hat! June wants me and I’m to spare.” 

June 10. 

A letter from Mr. Wells tells me that he thinks it wise to 


72 


A Romance of the Road 


postpone my further experience on the road until after vaca- 
tion time ; says he weighs only two hundred, can eat only four 
times a day, is clean tuckered out and doesn’t want the addi- 
tional care of my department any longer; thinks he’s going 
into a decline; is sure he needs a good rest; Fox Lake was 
never more beautiful; his cottage there never more comfortable; 
the woods never before so full of song birds; mushrooms ripe; 
fishing good; is sure he will recuperate more rapidly if the 
heads of all the departments are in their places, while he wins 
back his appetite and builds up his wasted frame. 

And I am instructed to take the next train for Chicago. 


CHAPTER IX 

THE BEST OF A JOURNEY 

After all, the best of a journey is getting home. 

This morning I went early to the office, thinking to sort of 
look over the ground before eight-thirty. On the contrary, I 
held a half-hour reception. 

Signe and Marie were the first to greet me. 

“You’ll find everything all right, Mrs. Von Meyer,” said 
Marie. “We took turns sitting in your chair and looking im- 
portant, and there isn’t a single left-over on your desk.” 

“She means that she looked important,” said Signe. “I didn’t 
only look it: I was.” 

“We both thought we were,” said Marie, “which is really 
the same thing. Lucile’s red hat is coming up the stairway. 
You’ll be surprised when you see the girl under it.” 

“You are looking as nice as ever dearies,” I said, “and I’m 
sure I shall find everything all right.” 

Then I turned to look at the girl under the red hat. Lucile 
is the office baby. She celebrated her fifteenth birthday just a 
short while ago, and during my absence she put on long skirts. 
I am sorry to see the transition. I liked her short print frocks 
better. But Lucile is immensely proud of the change and feels 
very grown-up. “Isn’t it becoming?” she asked, turning round 
for my inspection. 

Poor little parentless fifteen-year-old woman! When most 

73 


74 


A Romance of the Road 


children are enjoying themselves as children should, Lucile is 
earning her living and mothering a younger sister. She does her 
work cheerfully and does it well, but somehow I feel that she 
is being cheated out of her childhood. But Lucile doesn’t waste 
any time pitying herself, and is so self-reliant and self-confident, 
that I can foresee a career of business success ahead of her. 
From the day when she first hung her hat in our cloak room 
and expressed her intention of remaining right with us indef- 
initely, she has worked hard to make good, and is now the head 
stenographer in our credit department, and devoted to her chief, 
whom she ran to meet at the head of the stairs without waiting 
for me to tell her whether her long skirts were becoming, and 
joined our group with her arm round Smithie’s waist. 

Of course we couldn’t carry on a business without the time- 
honored names of Smith and Jones in our midst. And these 
said names needn’t be ashamed of their representatives in this 
concern, either. 

Smithie is a dark-haired rosy-cheeked girl, v/ho, to our sur- 
prise, insists that she is much older than she looks. And she 
is surely more dangerous than she looks. You would never 
suspect how very formidable a foe she is to the delinquents on 
our books, and how she somehow makes them pay up and 
promise to be good, forever after. 

And Jonesie, — well do you know it is not unusual at all for 
Jonesie or her assistants to find a back correspondence? Once 
I heard a pious man of business acknowledge that the one thing 
which most sorely tempted him to profanity was his filing de- 
partment. But he didn’t have our blonde-haired Jonesie — and 
he needn’t apply. 

Speaking of Jonesie’s hair, it is not only blonde, but it is 
curly. Can you think of anything more maddening to those of 
us less favored? On the very stickiest mornings, when a com- 


The Best of a Journey 


75 


bination of perspiration and dampness of atmosphere combine in 
a diabolical conspiracy to take out every wave we laboriously 
put in, Jonesie comes in serene and smiling, with the waves and 
curls just a little more bewitching than on the days when the 
contrast would be less marked. Except that we are just the 
most angelic people on earth, we should be consumed with envy. 
As it is, we just admire Jonesie’s pretty waves and humbly wish 
that the gods hadn’t been so stingy with the rest of us. 

Edna came rushing up the stairs with her suit case in her 
hand, which meant that she had been Sundaying at Fox Lake. 
Edna has the good fortune to be a bosom chum of a near relative 
of Mr. Wells’, which means that she has many a week-end in- 
vitation to the Lake. And here is another case in which the 
imp of envy is sent about his business with “nary” a convert. 
Really, we shall be growing wings if we don’t watch out. 

“Now, come here young lady, and confess. What have you 
been into?” demanded Lola sternly. 

Edna has an expression in her eyes, always, as of just having 
been into mischief. Her other strong characteristic is her love 
of, and her belief in, her own city. To Edna’s way of think- 
ing, there really isn’t another place on the map. 

“While you were away, Mrs. Von Meyer,” continued Lola, 
“I refused Johnny because I thought he was Jimmy, and then 
I accepted Jimmy because I thought he was Johnny, and then 
Jimmy insisted that he was Johnny and that it was all right 
after all. But if he is Jimmy, how can he be Johnny? Oh! — 
O ! — O f — Ow !” And Lola made as if to tear her hair. “And 
what do you think? I saw Signe talking to Jimmy and I 
wouldn’t speak to her for three days, I was so jealous. I 
thought all the time it was Johnny, till Johnny said it wasn’t, 
because he is Jimmy. I am still not quite sure whether I should 
speak to Signe.” 


76 


A Romance of the Road 


Everybody laughed and Olive F. said, “The idea! who would 
ever have believed it of Signe!” 

“Still waters run deep,” said Clara. “For instance, here is 
Ragna. She seems the quietest little mouse in the world, but 
a lot of it is only seeming. I ought to know, seeing I’m her best 
friend. And you just ought to see her angry once.” 

“She just reminds one of a cunning little snapping turtle, 
when she’s cross,” said Golda. 

Ragna and Golda are assistants to Clara — Clara, the book 
keeper and watch dog of the treasury — Clara who makes you 
feel like thirty cents when you draw ahead. 

These demure assistants are the last girls you would ever 
select as wrestlers with figures. But, as Clara says, Ragna isn’t 
so much of a mouse as she looks, and Golda, in spite of her 
fluffy goldyness, has a mouth that is decision itself. 

Anna D. came swinging down to join us. “The breezy 
thing,” said Olive F., “you’d think she’s a whole whirlwind all 
by herself.” 

Olive F. is given the initial because of the other Olive. 
There’s something wonderfully refreshing about Olive F. She’s 
always smiling and always good-humored. And she’s right 
about Anna D. There’s something very elemental about her. 
Annie stopped in her dusting one day to remark that Anna D. 
reminded her of Lake Michigan in a storm. “Not that Anna 
D. is stormy, you know,” said Annie, “but because she acts just 
as the surroundings make her feel like acting. When the wind 
blows, old Lake Michigan feels like getting up on her tin ear 
and howling, and she does it. The other day, Anna D. felt 
more like walking ten blocks in the rain than to take the car 
two blocks away, and she did it. Sort of responds to the ele- 
ments, Anna D. does, just like something that is a part of 
nature.” 


The Best of a Journey 


77 


Sarah came up and modestly exhibited her betrothal an- 
nouncement. Sarah is our only Jewess. Her hair and eyes are 
as black as midnight and her lips and cheeks vie with the red 
rose in coloring. 

“Why didn’t you show this a long time ago,” demanded Anna 
D., looking at the date. “It’s three months old.” 

“Don’t tease her Anna D.,” said Agnes. “She’s bashful and 
wouldn’t be showing it even now, except that this is her last 
week with us.” 

“Oh! a June bride!” said Anna D. “Well, I call that out of 
sight! When’s it to be?” 

“Almost right away,” blushing. “We have found a flat that 
just suits us and Jack thinks we oughtn’t wait.” 

“O ! Pshaw ! There’ll be flats when you’re a hundred years 
old,” said Anna D. “That excuse don’t go with me at all.” 

“May-be we don’t need any excuse.” 

“I guess that’s it. You’ve just made up your minds to get 
married, and if it wasn’t the flat, you’d find Jack thinking up 
some other reason for hurrying up the wedding. And why do 
you call him Jack? I’ll bet a penny his name is Jake.” 

“And I’ll bet another that you don’t know anything about 
it, and that — ” 

“Don’t quarrel, girls,” said Miss G. “Sarah will have plenty 
of time for that a little later.” 

Miss G. is our married girl, but we haven’t learned yet, to 
call her anything but Miss G. If we didn’t know that she and 
her good-looking husband are very much in love with each 
other, we might think that remark meant local disturbances. 
As it is, we laughed and Olive F. said, “Just listen to the voice 
of experience. Sarah, take warning.” 

“Come and join us, Vera and Analice,” said Olive. “W& 
won’t bite you.” 


78 


A Romance of the Road 


Vera and Analice are two little file clerks, so shy and timid 
that they are said to turn pale if they read a scolding letter 
from a cross customer, and once, Analice fainted. Nobody 
knows why, but the fact remains that she did, and Vera, — well 
if Vera has ever fainted, we haven’t heard about it, but some- 
times her blue eyes are pathetically big, almost too big for the 
little face in its setting of soft gold hair. So we just try to make 
these little timid ones at home by being kind to them. 

“Well,” said Signe thoughtfully, “if our good wishes can 
help any, Sarah is going to be a happy girl.” 

“And we are going to hope to see her pretty hair retain its 
midnight lustre, and to see the sparkle stay in her eyes for many 
years to come,” said Olive poetically. 

“And we want to see her lips stay red and her cheeks keep 
on being — being — being — ” 

“That’s all right, Lola,” said Edna soothingly, extending her 
handkerchief, “we understand.” 

“We all wish for Sarah, just the very best things that can 
come to her,” said Agnes quietly. “She is our first bride for 
this year. I wonder who will be the next?” 

“I notice in the paper this morning,” said Bess, “that the 
cupid’s bow is disappearing from the lips of business women. 
But I don’t believe it. Every girl’s mouth in this crowd has a 
perfect Cupid’s curve. I’ve just been taking special notice of 
it while all of you were talking. It isn’t a bad looking lot of 
mouths by any means.” 

“And anyhow, why should business have anything to do with 
it?” demanded Golda. “I suppose it is some more of that fool- 
ish talk about there not being any room in the life of a business 
woman for love.” 

“Just hear our demure Golda,” said Olive admiringly. “I 


The Best of a Journey 


79 


wonder what the newspapers and the great learned men of the 
world would do without women to guess about.” 

“It is about time again,” said Ruby, “right now, for some 
learned professor to stand up and proclaim the news that he 
finds, upon due consideration and investigation, that woman has 
no natural capacity for thought, that her brain is zigzagged, 
and her whole mental fibre struck by lightning.” 

“You old man-hater!” said one of the girls. 

“I’m not! Nobody admires a real man more than I. I’m 
going to marry one of them some day, but he must be my mental 
equal and must recognize me as his.” 

“Right you are, Ruby,” said another girl, “and I’m with you, 
even to saying that I’m a suffragette.” 

“There are worse things, girls, than being a suffragette,” 
said Ruby thoughtfully, “and if wishing the privilege of the 
ballot, makes me a suffragette, then that’s what I am.” 

“What good will it do?” asked one. 

“That isn’t the question. It’s just a mere begging of the 
question. When a foreigner, so ignorant that he scarcely knows 
whether the president of the United States of America lives in 
Washington or Rome, takes out his naturalization papers, it 
isn’t asked what good it is going to do. Citizenship is given 
him merely as his right. Girls, I can scarcely remember my 
father. My mother is the head of our family. She is a tax 
payer. She obeys the laws. Why shouldn’t she have the right 
of the ballot and why shouldn’t she be a real citizen ? Do you 
suppose that any man is more loyal to our country than she? 
Or do you suppose that my young brother is in any way my 
superior, that he may become a citizen while I cannot?” 

“But think how unwomanly it would make us.” 

Ruby turned upon the speaker the full force of her magnetic 
blue eyes. “Do you think it would make you unwomanly? If 


8o 


A Romance of the Road 


it would, then you would be unwomanly, anyhow. You see, 
that is what people said when woman asked for education. That 
has been the cry all along the line when she has asked for a 
privilege that was already hers, by right. It’s a shame that she 
must have the humiliation of being compelled to ask and plead 
and pray for her God-given privileges. Why don’t men give 
them to her without her asking?” 

“In the first place,” said one, “how could men have had the 
nerve to take all these rights for themselves, and then growl 
like a dog with a bone when asked to share them with women, 
who were, in the first place, entitled to them the same as they.” 

“Nobody can understand that,” said another, “except the 
dog himself, and he won’t tell.” 

“Let me tell you,” said Ruby, “if I had the giving of some 
great educational or political right, and it was in my power 
to confer it upon men, they wouldn’t have to even ask me for 
it. They wouldn’t have to wear themselves out petitioning me 
to give them something that was no more mine than theirs. 
Why, if I were to deliberately and wilfully withhold it from 
them, I would be ashamed to look them in the face, I would 
feel so mean.” 

“We’re with you, Ruby,” said the others. 

There was a moment of thoughtful silence and then Olive 
asked about that Cupid’s bow. 

“It’s just as much in evidence as ever,” declared Helen who 
had joined us. “But even suppose it was really vanishing, it 
wouldn’t be such a great loss. The women of to-day can do 
more than merely to look pretty, though they can do that, too, 
as well as they could in our great grandmothers’ days.” 

“Sensible men in this progressive age will never be caught 
merely by a Cupid’s bow mouth,” said Lola. “Even Johnny 
says he would love me just as much without my pretty mouth.” 


The Best of a Journey 


81 


The girls laughed and she continued : 

“I didn’t pay any attention to him when he said it, because 
I thought like as not he was Jimmy. I found out afterward 
that it was Jimmy. But as he says he is Johnny, and Johnny 
says he is Jimmy, then it may be that it was Johnny after all. 
Oh ! — O ! — ooh !’ Lola rushed to the window with suicidal in- 
tent, but the girls begged her to think better of it. “I’ll wait 
till after lunch, anyhow, she agreed. “I saw Johnny’s pockets 
bulging with peaches. But suppose it was Jimmy’s pockets. 
And if Johnny is Jimmy and he has the peaches, then Johnny 
himself, hasn’t any. In which case I might as well end it all 
right now. This terrible sorrow is b — bl — blighting my young 
life!” 

And then it was eight-thirty and everybody went to work. 


CHAPTER X 


OUR GIRLS 

Bless their hearts! I should like to devote an entire chapter 
to each of them. In fact, a whole volume would be necessary 
to do any one of them complete justice. 

When I read Chapter nine to a few of them, Signe reminded 
me that I hadn’t said a word about Hazel, Alice, Alice H. and 
Lena. Now, these are four girls that I wouldn’t leave out of 
it for anything. Lena is another graduate from the factory — 
another who made good there first and is making good now in 
a better position. If I could, I would describe Lena’s hair and 
eyes, just because they are so different from the hair and eyes 
that most girls have. They have that indescribable tinge of 
reddish, brownish auburn that always leaves you perplexed and 
unsatisfied because of a desire to see them again. But, be it 
said to Lena’s credit, if she knows she is irresistibly pretty, she 
keeps the knowledge well to her self, a fact which proclaims 
her good, solid sense. 

Now no one would have been at all surprised if Lena’s eyes 
had been blue or black or even green — for her name doesn’t 
suggest a single thing. But of Hazel, you would expect some- 
thing different. And yet, Hazel has the audacity to dazzle you 
with the most perfectly blue eyes you ever saw. It’s very incon- 
sistent of Hazel. She realizes this, herself, and has promised 
most solemnly to have them made over. And I have never yet 

82 


Our Girls 


«3 


known Hazel to break a promise. I have given her copy work 
to do when her typewriter was almost buried with stuff from 
other departments and I would wonder how she dared promise 
that I should have the work that same day, and would wonder 
still more when she actually delivered the goods. And so, with 
her promise out, I’m expecting almost any day, to see Hazel 
wearing eyes to match the color scheme of her name. 

And about Alice — well we couldn’t keep house without 
Alice, and even if she does look a little cross sometimes when 
she comes round to collect the mail, we know she is going to 
put in all the enclosures and the stenographers know that she 
is going to “call them down” properly if they leave off the call- 
up date or address the wrong sort of envelope. And then, she 
and Alice H. are my namesakes. At least they were named after 
me — a number of years after me; just how many, I shall not 
proclaim from the housetop. Alice H. is given the initial for 
the same reason that Olive F. is given hers. I am proud of 
these two Alices. They do honor to the name. 

And right here comes to mind another I have missed, quiet 
Helen M., another girl with a necessary initial, and assistant 
to Clara. She’s always so dignified and silent, I suppose that 
is why I forgot her. 

And there’s Miss H., our golden-haired typist, who wades 
right into her copy work every morning and keeps at it all day 
and acts as if she really likes it. She says she does. Anyhow, 
she never shirks, and her friendly disposition makes her very 
likable. 

And then there are Sophia and Margaret and Irene and 
Cora, who come down from the factory to help out sometimes 
when needed and about whom I shall not say very much in this 
story. In fact I shall probably not mention them again, but 
want them to know that the only reason for it is that I do not 


8 4 


A Romance of the Road 


see them often enough to feel acquainted. I always try to not 
say very much about people I do not know lest I may not do 
them full justice. 

What a variety of pretty names we have. If there are any 
doubtful, worried parents as to names for the newest babies, just 
let them notice those worn by our girls and take heart. 

We have names, pretty and modest, stately and dignified, 
jolly and happy, serious and otherwise. And none of us have 
them copyrighted — not even a “patent applied for” — so name 
your entire family for us if you like. 

And now, if I haven’t paid my respects to all the girlies that 
are to be mentioned in this story, I trust I shall remember them 
gradually as I go along. 

I may or may not have a great deal to say about any of them 
as the story progresses, for, primarily, you know, this book is 
written to make good a long-ago vow, and to even up with 
Sammy and Madge. And I don’t know just how much of 
it I can spare for the rest of us. Time and a little more ink 
will tell. 

“Mrs. Von Meyer,” said Marie, “you didn’t mention 
Hannah.” 

Now what do you think of that? Of course I can’t leave out 
Hannah. And I must be sure to put the “h” at the end of her 
name for that is the way she spells it. Now, I shan’t give you 
any particulars about Hannah. Just call down to see us some 
day. Come right up the first flight of stairs and speak to the 
young lady at the first desk you come to — and that’s Hannah. 

Now! Don’t tell me there’s another. Give me a chance to 
say something about La-dy Edith’s new office and about the girls 
in there. She moved into this new office during my absence. I 
looked in this morning, and there was Lady Edith seated in the 
center of the room. Round her were grouped Helen, Olive, 


Our Girls 


85 

Avery, Esther and Velma. Lady Edith in her gown of golden 
brown reminded me exactly of a plump little motherly buff- 
cochin with her little chicks hovered about her. 

First there is Helen. Helen is to Lady Edith what Signe is 
to me. And that means a lot. Sometimes Helen wears a valu- 
able brooch that came down to her from many and many a gen- 
eration. The first girl in each generation falls heir to it in 
Helen’s family. It was a long while before I knew about it, 
for Helen doesn’t boast of her ancestors, though the family is an 
old and noted one of Austria. 

“When I was down in Oklahoma,” said Helen, one day, when 
discussing it, “I was waited upon at table by the great grand- 
daughter of a once great chief. Right on the spot where the 
hotel stands, her ancestor had held his war councils and ruled 
his powerful tribe. But in spite of her ancestry, this Indian 
maid earns her living by the sweat of her brow. I am doing 
the same thing; and nobody is going to condone my short-com- 
ings because of my family. I’ve got to stand on my own merit 
and make good on my own account.” Sensible girl, Helen. 

Isn’t Avery an odd name for a girl? “Aviary” the girls call 
her sometimes and inquire whether she has birds for sale. Next 
to Helen, she, perhaps stands closest to Lady Edith, who knows 
best of all, how to appreciate her real value. 

And right here while speaking of the girls in Lady Edith’s 
office, I must explain that I’m not going to tell Olive’s secret, 
after all. She won’t let me ; so, ye curious ones, please don’t in- 
sist for I’m not going to say another word about it though I’m 
crazy to tell. You know it’s the things we’re not allowed to 
tell, that tempt us. 

“Mrs. Von Meyer,” said Marie to-day, “if you can’t find a 
real publisher for your book, let’s have Gertrude print each of 
us a copy.” 


86 


A Romance of the Road 


Gertrude is operator of the writer press and her skilful hand- 
ling of the little machine is very wonderful to see. Once there 
was a strike among the printers in Chicago, and we half hoped 
that Gertrude would join it, and give us a break in the monot- 
ony. We had never seen a strike. But much to our disappoint- 
ment, we found that Gertrude didn’t even belong to the union. 

I do believe this is the first mention I have made of Ger- 
trude — and I wouldn’t have forgotten Gertrude for a farm in 
Kansas. Once I heard Gertrude say something that entitles 
her to be remembered. “If you imagine that the business can’t 
go on without you,” she said to a disgruntled girl, who was 
threatening to quit, “just try sticking your finger in a pail of 
water and see what sort of a hole you will leave when you take 
it out.” 

As to Sammy and Madge, — of course they were committing 
all sorts of offenses during my absence and would have done ex- 
actly the same had I remained at home. One of their very lat- 
est, is falling in love with The Widow. Now there may be a 
few benighted ones in the world who have never heard of that 
play and who really do not know that the widow is a very hand- 
some man. Sammy and Madge do not know whether they love 
him more because he is a handsome man, or because he is a beau- 
tiful woman. But they do know that they have a couple of 
autograph-photos and none of the rest of us are allowed to for- 
get it either ; and this is the note that brought them : 

Hail ! Muse ! Pray lend thy hand a while, 

As we essay to praise the smile 
Of the Widow captivating. 

No matter if she does wear pants, 

She does the oriental dance, 

As gracefully as if by chance 
She was not imitating. 


Our Girls 


8 ; 


Her eyes are bright, her voice is sweet, 

Her form divine — not too petite — 

And oh ! how fascinating ; 

The music plays ; her song she starts, 

You feel the pierce of Cupid’s darts 
And helplessly lay bare your hearts 
To the Widow, captivating. 

And so we come our cause to plead — 

To ask a balm for hearts that bleed — 

For pulses palpitating: 

A photo? No, not only one, 

It must be two or must be none. 

Please, will you pardon what we’ve done, 

Mr. Widow, captivating? 

(Signed) Sammy and Madge. 

Though each declared she admired him more in his woman’s 
make-up because he was so beautiful, yet each wished the man- 
photo so much that, to settle it, they had to cast lots. Madge 
drew it, but seeing Sammy’s . disappointment, magnanimously 
agreed that it should divide its time equally between the two 
desks. 




CHAPTER XI 


MOTHERS KNOW 

This chapter isn’t going to be what it was at first intended. 
Oswald has come and gone, and I had told all about it in chap- 
ter eleven. I had pictured Oswald, just as he really is, a stal- 
wart mountaineer, as steadfast as his own Ozarks, and yet, like 
all mental giants, as tender and gentle as a woman. I told 
about his university degrees and his prospects in his chosen pro- 
fession, and, with my eyes so full I couldn’t see the lines, I 
wrote A his reason for coming. And Sammy would have none 
of it. 

“It’s all true, mother, dear, every word of it,” she said, “but 
I should never survive it if Mr. Wells, or Mr. Chance, or the 
girls, should happen to read it.” 

Now it is my expectation that Mr. Wells and Mr. Chance 
and the girls shall read chapter eleven, along with the others, 
and so I am obediently working it over. 

I remember how I had planned to bring up my first baby by 
method and system. All young mothers do. I carefully made 
out a program by which her daily life should be regulated, and, 
like other mothers I ended by fashioning my own program, to 
conform to the wishes of the baby. “The baby,” said someone 
in this connection, “the dearest, the most relentless little tyrant 
that God ever made.” 

The habit, once formed, has kept me right along fashioning 

88 


Mothers Know 


89 


my own program to conform to hers, and so I am re-writing 
chapter eleven. But this particular chapter is associated in my 
mind with my first-born and if she won’t allow Oswald in it, 
she must be in it alone. 

When Sammy first opened her eyes down in the beautiful 
Ozark country, Oswald, not more than forty miles away, al- 
ready boasting of six sturdy years, was playing and dreaming on 
the banks of the classic Gasconade. 

“Isn’t it a shame that we didn’t know each other then?” said 
Oswald. 

“In all probability you wouldn’t have looked at me,” Sammy 
replied. 

“Perhaps not. But I can’t help wishing that we could have 
grown up together. I wish we might have attended the same 
country school. Think of the red apples I would have brought 
you. Perhaps I would even have hauled you to school on my 
sled, instead of the other girls.” 

“I am sorry to have missed the red apples.” 

“You were nearly seventeen when I saw you the first time. 
I shall always love that little, old college, shan’t you?” Sammy 
nodded. “I asked someone who the young girl was in black — 
the nice-looking, young girl — and no one seemed to know, for 
you were a stranger. And right there I felt the first symptoms 
of the malady that has grown steadily worse all these three 
years.” 

And now I don’t dare say another word here about Oswald, 
for I don’t wish to write chapter eleven the third time. 

Other mothers know what I feel, and will understand why I 
am going back in thought over every moment of the time since 
I first saw the tiny form of my first baby beside me. How my 
heart swelled with the love indescribable. Mothers kn6w. 


90 


A Romance of the Road 


From that moment life had a different and a deeper meaning. 
What a dear, darling baby she was ; how cuddly and soft. 

Closely associated in my mind with Sammy’s babyhood, is 
that of a sweet, slender girl whose short life seemed like a dream 
to us after she was gone. It was she who traveled back with 
me, to my home in the far West, where Sammy’s father awaited 
us, while the baby was still so pink and wriggling that only we 
who loved her so much, could really see how beautiful she was 
— for this young girl loved the baby with a tenderness second 
only to mine. 

Cupid awaited her in her new environment and Sammy’s sec- 
ond birthday saw her standing beside the man of her choice, 
while the minister pronounced the words that put her life into 
his keeping, her sweet face scarcely less pale than a scant two 
years later, when we saw it for the last time, as the slender form 
lay in its white casket, and we tried to realize just what was left 
in life that was worth while. 

And so, I cannot speak of Sammy’s babyhood, without a pass- 
ing mention of this young girl, my best-loved sister, who joined 
with me in new discoveries each day, and new evidences of this 
wonderful baby’s most remarkable development and who, with 
me, reported them to the baby’s father, the other party most in- 
terested, each evening upon his return from business. 

Before me this morning is a tiny shoe with a little hole worn 
in the toe. This most remarkable baby crawled before she 
walked. We learned that other babies had been known to do 
the same thing, but we were very sure that it was, somehow, 
different when our baby did it. She traveled about on her hands 
and knees much more cleverly, we were convinced, than any 
baby had ever done before, and when we saw the little toes begin 
to peep through, we thought it a great joke that the baby had 
worn out her shoes. 


Mothers Know 


9i 


One of the first tricks she learned, was to put up a little bare 
foot for the kiss I always had ready, whenever I removed her 
shoes; and very soon the story of the little pig that went to 
market had to be told on the tiny toes; and then if she wished 
it, I gave myself up to the delicious martyrdom of rocking her 
to sleep. 

There is a companion shoe with this little worn-one-at-the- 
toe, and I know that it belongs to my boy, who made his debut 
on the world’s big stage, twenty months later than his sister. 
He has been a lively actor every minute of the time since; but 
he doesn’t like to be in books, so I am saying very little about 
him in this story. 

This little companion shoe is worn at the heel. It seems odd 
that my tall son should ever have “scooted” about the floor, 
sitting up as straight as a soldier, and using his feet for pro- 
pellers in a fashion so amusing, that Sammy, who by now was 
a veteran in the art of walking, would point a dainty finger at 
the little traveler and lisp, “Isn’t buvver funny?” 

What a dainty child our Sammy was, and how very particular 
about her wearing apparel and general, personal adornment. 
Often I would allow her to select from her wardrobe the little 
frock she was to wear for the afternoon, and, invariably, it 
would be the daintiest in the lot. And do you suppose she rolled 
on the grass, or made mud pies with it on? Not Sammy. I can 
see her now, trotting about with her playmates, everywhere 
carrying in one hand a little, red, reed chair scarcely larger than 
those belonging to her dolls, but which afforded a seat for its 
owner, when the others dropped on the grass or dug forbidden 
holes in the back yard. Sammy couldn’t bear to be grimy. 

I remember my delight when my tiny daughter first evinced 
a desire to learn to sew. I remember the little thimble I bought 
for her, so very small it was really just a suspicion of a thimble, 


92 


A Romance of the Road 


and how my heart swelled with tenderness, to see the first 
stitches she made as she sat beside me in a rocker, almost as 
small as the little red chair she carried with her at play. 

I remember, too, how she followed me about as I busied my- 
self with household duties and spelled out the words in her pic- 
ture books for my pronunciation, and how, as a result, she was 
reading when she was three years of age — a most remarkable 
thing I am told, and, according to some educators, most im- 
proper. They call it precocious, and precocious children, they 
insist, seldom live up to their early promises. But, at the time, 
it seemed perfectly natural because Sammy did it ; and if it made 
her any less an adorable baby-child, or lovable child-baby, I 
didn’t discover it. And it hasn’t hurt her any since, either. 

It really might be that even the great educators do not always 
know. Nature knows, of itself, usually, what its needs are, and 
could teach the learned ones many a truth if they would but get 
away from their theories long enough to listen. 

So many memories of my dear girl’s babyhood and childhood 
are thronging upon me that, to write them all, would make a 
library. But of some of them I could not write. There are 
some things one cannot put on paper. She was five years of age, 
when, one day, life seemed suddenly to end ; and I found myself 
facing the world, alone, with two little children looking to me 
for maintenance. 

Sammy, with her mature comprehension and quick sympathy, 
did her little best, as the elder of the two, to comfort, and to 
make me feel that she understood. And I was encouraged to 
pick up life’s broken threads and go on. And it is of this that I 
cannot write. 

And, now, the tender plant that I have nurtured and watched 
in its unfolding, all along the way, is in its first blossoming. 
The first creamy petals are reaching out to the warmth and sun- 


Mothers Know 


93 


light of life, giving promise of a maturer, riper beauty, yet to 
come. 

But why continue ? 

I must face the fact that my baby has grown up. And if love 
claims her and she responds to the call, her mother will be the 
last person in the world to stand in her way. 

For above all else I desire her happiness. 


CHAPTER XII 


wanted: a villain 

“Come on and quit thinking about it?” said Lady Edith* yes- 
terday as the hour hand and the minute hand embraced and 
chatted a moment before the long-legged one waved his cap in 
good-bye and raced on. “Just try to delude yourself into the 
belief that you are not losing her but that you are merely ac- 
quiring a big son, without having had the trouble of bringing 
him up. That’s what I am doing.” 

“Does it work?” 

“No.” 

“Then why try?” 

“Did you ever hear of the two frogs that fell into the jar of 
cream? One of them gave up and sank despairingly to the 
bottom. The other churned a little ball of butter in his strug- 
gles to stay on top and was high and dry and whistling ‘Home, 
Sweet Home,’ when they found him.” 

“There is no connection.” 

“Perhaps not. I am only trying to comfort you somehow, 
when I know that you know, and you know that I know, that 
there is no comfort. It’s just a case of endurance to which 
mothers should some day become accustomed. But they never 
do.” 

“What I dread is the difference it will make.” 

“Maybe the difference will not be so great as we fear. Let 

94 


Wanted: A Villain 


95 


us hope, anyhow, while we can. Come on to lunch. You’ve 
been avoiding us of late.” 

“And we wish to know how the book is progressing,” said 
Mr. Wells who joined us at that moment. 

And here Miss Fedora and Lady Edith exchanged smiles. 
They always do when my book is mentioned. But, do you 
know, I don’t mind it at all. I am having a lot of enjoyment in 
the writing of this story. If it never comes to light, I still will 
have had my pay for the labor of it, merely from the pleasure of 
doing it. And I am willing that Lady Edith and Miss Fedora 
shall enjoy their view of it. If it is amusing to them that I 
should write a book, I am willing that they shall smile when- 
ever it is mentioned. I care enough for them not to care for the 
smile. And now, after you read this, you will know, perfectly 
well, that I do care. 

“What is the plot of the story, anyhow?” asked the Doctor 
as we seated ourselves at the table laid for six. 

I really had avoided them lately, just as Lady Edith said, and 
all because I was hugging a heart-ache, which made my need of 
friendly association even greater than usual. This is often the 
way. 

The New Southern is always restful. It is a comfortable 
place to talk things over and Twenty-one is an ideal waiter. 
I felt better, right away, to find myself seated again in familiar 
surroundings and was quite ready to reply to the Doctor’s 
question. 

“I am not altogether sure that it has anything which could be 
really called a plot,” I said. 

“Surely it has. How, otherwise, could it be a story?” 

“It’s a relation of incidents,” I said. 

“A relation of incidents. Really, Mrs. Von, you’ve selected 
a most difficult scheme for a book. Do you know that there are 


96 


A Romance of the Road 


only a very few interesting books of incident? Haven’t you, at 
least, a pair of lovers in it with something serious to overcome ? 
Isn’t there a villain to be quelled ?” 

“But there are no villains in our business, Doctor,” I argued, 
“and I haven’t looked anywhere else as yet. If I do chance to 
find one, I’ll put him in to please you, if nothing else.” 

“You don’t need to please the Doctor,” said Lady Edith pout- 
ingly. 

“And as for the lovers, none of them have died of broken 
hearts and nobody is trying to separate them.” I thought of 
Myra here, but Mrs. Watson and I had decided to keep Myra’s 
affair quiet for the present — and anyhow the general office peo- 
ple knew very little of Myra, and I continued: “Even for 
you and Lady Edith the course of true love is running smoothly. 
Do something thrilling, you two, if you want something ex- 
citing in the story.” 

“They’re too lazy,” said Mr. Wells. “Suppose you stir up 
an insurrection somewhere — in the shipping room, for instance. 
And that reminds me: Brocki would make a fine figure as a 
lover if Mark was out of the way. Gee! I’m hungry! What 
shall we have ?” 

“Too bad you don’t live in the Sandwich Islands,” said Mr. 
Chance. “There you can eat all the time and never hurt the 
country a particle, for the moment you pull a sandwich off, an- 
other grows right on.” 

“Or in the moon,” said the Doctor, “where you can cut off 
great chunks of green cheese and others grow on, while you eat.” 

“By the way,” said Mr. Chance, “you’re all invited to spend 
the summer at my country seat.” 

“Where?” in surprise. 

“Right under my pet cherry tree in the back yard. I bought 
the bench yesterday.” 


Wanted: A Villain 


97 


We saw at once that Mr. Chance had one of his “spells.” I 
have often wished I could remember all the original things I 
have heard him say and I wish I could repeat them in his own 
inimitable style. More than half the cleverness is lost if you 
don’t hear him say them at first hand. His manner, always 
irresistable, is doubly so when he is jocosely inclined. 

“But what are we going to eat?” Again asked Mr. Wells. 
“What do you want, Miss Fedora?” 

Miss Fedora usually wants cherry pie and coffee, and then 
some more cherry pie, but she had one of her head-aches yester- 
day and didn’t want much of anything. And she was getting 
yellow round the mouth and was sure she was bilious. Miss 
Fedora is always tormenting that perfect complexion of hers by 
getting yellow round the mouth — and then as a penance she 
diets for a day or so. 

“Just give me some teast and toe, Mr. Wells, please, and I 
want the slices very thin and very brown.” 

“You want some — ” 

“Some teast and toe. No! no! I don’t mean that, of course. 
I mean I want some toe and teast. No! no! I mean — ” 

“Never mind what you mean, Miss Fedora. You shall have 
what you want. You hear her order, Twenty-one.” 

Lady Edith was speaking of her friend’s baby and said he had 
been walking three months. 

“Dear me!” remarked Mr. Chance, absent-mindedly, “what a 
long distance away he must be by now.” 

An acquaintance bowed to the Doctor as he passed our table, 
and the Doctor remarked that the gentleman was a German. 

“Explanation unnecessary,” said Mr. Chance, “the germs are 
visible.” 

“Once,” said Mr. Wells, “I heard Chance tell one of the 


98 


A Romance of the Road 


girls in the office that a parasite was something born and raised 
in Paris. I had a notion to fire him.” 

“Here’s something I saw this morning in a rural newspaper,” 
and Mr. Chance took a clipping from his pocket and read: 
“ ‘Your own baby enlarged, painted and framed, for nine dol- 
lars and seventy-five cents per dozen.’ Here’s another: ‘Notice! 
No shooting or picking of blackberries on my land.’ And an- 
other: ‘A full carload of pressed brick came into town last week 
for a walk across the park.’ ” 

“We are going to have company for dinner this evening,” re- 
marked Miss Fedora, when she had recovered sufficiently to 
join again in the conversation. 

“Poor company!” said Mr. Chance. “And life may mean a 
lot to them, too. We are going to have roast lamb.” 

And here, Mr. Wells laid down his fork, declaring that 
spiked witticisms always did stick in his throat and that his 
appetite for lunch was gone. “And besides,” he remarked 
wearily, “I’m suspicious of Chance. He goes to a lot of shows 
that we don’t attend and he reads a lot of things that we never 
read.” 

“I see,” said the Doctor. “And all this time we have thought 
him so very original.” 

“I move,” said Mr. Chance, unaffected by the insult, “that 
the Doctor and Lady Edith quit holding hands. I shall sit be- 
tween them hereafter. Mrs. Von.,” turning to me, “how is that 
book going to be illustrated?” 

“With likenesses of the girls, largely, if the publisher ap- 
proves, and the girls are willing. All have expressed their will- 
ingness except Sammy and Madge, and they can prevent it only 
by continuing to keep their photos under lock and key.” 

“The little wretches!” said Lady Edith, laughing. “But lis- 





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Wanted: A Villain 


99 


ten. I’ve an inspiration. Do you remember the April Fool 
photographs they had taken last year ?” 

“Those backs of their heads?” 

“Yes.” 

“You know we all insisted that they were the best pictures 
we had ever seen of them, and Mark worried Madge about 
them till she threw them away in disgust. I rescued them one 
morning from the waste basket.” 

“That would be, at least, a surprise for the nice pair,” said 
Mr. Wells. 

“And will serve them exactly right,” said Lady Edith. 

“But even the backs of their heads aren’t so bad looking,” 
said the Doctor, and Lady Edith and I agreed with him. 

“You need only to ask their mothers if you want to know,” 
said Mr. Chance, laughing. “Am I in the book?” he asked. 

“Can’t I have my picture in it, somewhere?” a ked Mr. Wells, 
“and whatever you do, find a villain. It will be tame without 
one.” 

“I don’t blame you,” said the Doctor, “for preferring photo- 
graphs of real, live people, for illustrations. I have seen many 
a story totally spoiled by the drawings. Many a fine character 
in a book has been rendered flat and insipid by a picture wholly 
out of harmony with his environments and without the slightest 
conception of his real character. It makes you feel just as you 
do, when, at the theater, you see the heroine and the villain re- 
spond to the curtain calls in smiling harmony, just after an act 
of thrilling antagonism. It takes away all the reality of the 
thing.” 

“Do you mean to say, Mrs. Von., that you have put into the 
story, all the girls in the office?” asked Mr. Chance. 

“I have; and one from the factory — Myra. And if I could I 
would put in all the others.” 


100 


A Romance of the Road 


“But won’t it confuse outsiders to have to become acquainted 
with so many characters?” 

“I don’t know. I just know that I couldn’t leave any of 
them out.” 

“There won’t be any outsiders,” said Mr. Wells, with a w T ink 
at the Doctor. 

“Don’t you believe it,” said the Doctor. “Mrs. Von Meyer 
has told me, in confidence, that this is going to be a great book, 
and as not one of us has seen so much as a line of the manuscript, 
we must, for the present at least, take her word for it.” 

And Mr. Chance added: “When Wagner had finished a part 
of his ‘Tristan and Isolde,’ he wrote that, as the good Lord had 
said some four thousand years before when He had made the 
earth, that it was good, having no one to say it for Him, so 
would he say of this work of his, having no one to say it for 
him, ‘Richard, you’re a dickens of a fellow.’ Now, Mrs. Von 
Meyer is patting her own back, not having anyone to do it for 
her, and, after all, that is not so unpardonable on her part, for 
how can she be sure that any one else would do it half so well, 
or even do it at all?” 

“And she’ll have a lot of ‘bunk’ in it about all of us, I sup- 
pose,” said Mr. Wells. “I am perfectly sure that Mrs. Von. 
kissed the blarney stone some time or other, either here and now, 
or in some former existence.” 

“Sometimes,” said the Doctor, “I say the very nicest things 
to people and about them, when I am trying to forget the faults 
I see in them. So you ‘can’t always sometimes tell.’ ” 

“I’m only truthful,” I said, defending myself. “If I think 
that Miss Fedora looks unusually pretty some morning, I like 
to tell her so. If Lady Edith is a little more stylish one day 
than on others, I’m sure to say something to her about it. If 
the Doctor is handsomer in his brown suit, I like him to know 


Wanted: A Villain 


IOI 


that I notice it. And if I really and truly, like and admire you, 
I’m so anxious to have you know it, that I deliberately tell you.” 

“I suppose you call that passing round the bouquets while you 
can see the color of the posies,” said Mr. Wells. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I guess I won’t have Clara hand you your time just 
yet, though I warn you that you’re an old offender.” 

“What a lot of chaffers, we are,” said the Doctor. “We 
don’t act at all, as a party of staid, middle-aged people are sup- 
posed to act.” 

“I’m well aware that this is true of some of us,” said Mr. 
Chance. “That is why I shall sit between you and Lady Edith 
hereafter.” 

“But to return to this story of incident,” said the Doctor. 
“I’ve been thinking about it, and really, it seems to me, that a 
nice lot of girls like ours, ought to furnish material for a most 
interesting volume. And that it is to be a true story about real 
girls with their real names and genuine photographs, and their 
actual, sure-enough doings and sayings, — well, it will be unique 
to say the least, and I’m getting quite excited over it.” 

“There’ll be plenty of material all right,” agreed Mr. Wells, 
“and of course if you really must, you can dispense with the 
luxury of the villain, but I somehow have a hankering to see 
him in the story somewhere, so just keep your eyes open. Maybe 
you’ll find him when you least expect it. And as to a love af- 
fair, — surely you can scare up one of some sort. Why, even one 
of your own would be better than none.” 

“Mrs. Von. doesn’t believe in second loves, you know,” said 
Miss Fedora. 

“So I’ve heard,” remarked Mr. Wells. “But you know she 
met a man while she was away.” 

“Why, I merely met him,” I said, feeling my face turn red. 


102 A Romance of the Road 

“That’s what I said. There’s nothing to blush about. You 
merely met him.” 

“And my meeting him was the merest incident.” 

“Of course. But incidents are what you are looking for these 
days. It will make another one for your book.” Then they all 
laughed and I wished I hadn’t told them of my road experiences. 
I’m glad at least that I haven’t told them about the series of 
anonymous pen-and-ink post cards I am receiving. 

The first one reached me shortly after my sojourn at Miss 
Delia’s, and was so true to the subject that I saw myself all over 
again as I sat under the big live oak tree in front of that little 
country hotel, and wondered why I was a failure. Even the 
bow on my hat and the tucks in my shirtwaist were exactly as 
I wore them. It w T as most cleverly executed, throughout. And 
my wonder at the close observance of detail was followed by a 
flitting self-consciousness because of the very thing that com- 
mended the sketch. For a moment I almost thought I was an- 
noyed. But it was interesting — and I put it in my bag — and 
found myself looking at it occasionally. And it always provoked 
a smile. 

The next one came, and I saw myself at Miss Delia’s table, 
generously and recklessly helping myself to butter, regardless of 
gravy and other debris to be found upon it. 

The audacity of it! Still no offense was meant — of that I 
was sure. It just showed a keen sense of appreciation and the 
ability to express it irresistibly. 

And so the cards have kept on coming. Some of them are of 
scenes familiar, some merely fantastic, all of them interesting — 
and I’ve kept them every one. 

One of them pictured Miss Delia’s much-enduring stove, 
standing on its hind legs, frantically waving its fore paws in the 
air and spitting fire. Underneath was a title — “The Cussin’.” 


Wanted: A Villain 


103 


Going into Sammy’s office upon my return from lunch, I 
found Madge there, presumably on business intent, but she was 
saying : 

“Mark has gained ten pounds this year. He was weighed 
yesterday. Just guess how big he is.” 

“Can’t.” 

“One hundred and sixty-two,” impressively. 

“That’s nothing. Oswald weighs one hundred and eighty- 
five.” 

“But he’s taller than Mark.” 

“He isn’t. He’s just well proportioned. Mark looks like a 
match.” 

“I thought you liked Mark,” pouting. 

“I do. But he isn’t to be mentioned in the same day with 
Oswald.” 

“That’s just because he’s so far ahead of Oswald. I did 
think of asking you to go out with us tomorrow evening, but I 
believe I know another girl who would, perhaps, appreciate it.” 

“I know of one who is just dying to go.” 

“So do I. I shall write her a note at once.” 

“No, don’t. By the way, Mark is certainly stunning in that 
new gray suit. I wish Oswald was as particular as Mark about 
his personal appearance.” 

“I think Oswald is perfectly handsome.” 

“But Mark outshines him when it comes to dress, and he is 
positively growing better looking every day, too, Mark is, and 
I don’t wonder that you’re so proud of him. I would be, too, 
were I in your place.” 

How very agreeable they had suddenly become. Had it been 
any but Sammy and Madge, I might have wondered how it 
would come out. 

Once I tried being wholly, entirely, irresistibly, agreeable. It 


104 


A Romance of the Road 


was on a train, and the train was leaving El Paso. Not that this 
had anything to do with it, but that is how it was. 

My neighbor across the aisle had a little niece with her, and 
she kept telling me that the niece was coming down with a rash, 
and, just to have the matter settled beyond dispute, I rashly 
agreed with her. 

Pretty soon, she decided that it was measles. She insisted that 
it was measles, and appealed to me to verify her opinion. Her 
peace of mind seemed to hinge upon my agreeing with her, and 
I said that, like as not, it was measles that her niece was coming 
down with. 

In a little while, she had re-considered the matter and just 
knew that it was scarlet fever. And I told her, that in all 
probability, it was scarlet fever. 

And then, after all the trouble I had taken to be nice and 
agreeable, she said I was the most unsympathetic person she 
had ever seen. And I was spared all further opinions and de- 
cisions, during the remainder of the thousand-mile journey, for 
she didn’t even speak to me again. 

I never did learn just what the niece really had. 

I was brought back to the present by hearing Madge say, 
“What a pretty girl that is across the street. I’m glad Mark 
isn’t here.” 

“He wouldn’t look at her,” said Sammy. “She’s a blonde.’ 

“That’s why she’s so beautiful.” 

“That’s why she isn’t beautiful at all.” 

“But I should just love to have eyes like yours, Sammy.” 

“No, you wouldn’t. Mark has shown his good taste in the 
selection of a sweetheart, just as you have shown yours. 
Really, Madgie, he grows handsomer every day.” 

And then they kissed and made up, and Madge remarked 
that she guessed she wouldn’t write to the other girl. “Sammy,” 


Wanted: A Villain 


105 


she said, presently, “Sammy, can you 1 think of anything at all, 
that could separate you and Oswald, — something that could 
turn your present regard for him into something very different?” 

“Yes,” said Sammy quickly, “I can: Neglect, indifference or 
deception on his part.” 

“I have just read a very strongly-written story on the sub- 
ject,” said Madge, thoughtfully, “and according to the story, 
a woman’s love should hope everything, endure everything, kiss 
the lips that curse her and fondle the hand that strikes her.” 

“And be despised by her lord and master for her pains. No, 
Madgie! It is one thing to win a girl’s love and it is another 
thing to keep it.” 

“It is just like building a fire on the hearth,” said Madge. 
“It will die without fuel.” 

“And this doesn’t mean, Madge, that the woman is fickle or 
changeable or unreasonable. It merely means that she is true to 
her own womanhood; to her self-respect; to herself — her real 
self.” 

“The meeting isn’t over till the last song is sung,” said 
Madge. “You think you have found the one man in the world 
for you. I think the same about myself. But if you should find 
you were mistaken, if you found yourself disappointed in this 
one man, you wouldn’t rush to the lake to end it all, and you 
wouldn’t beg him to come back. You would recover; and you 
would build anew and you would find happiness. And you 
would be thankful, every day, that you escaped the first only 
man in the world. We’re not the sort, Sammy, to submit to 
just anything and everything, and just sigh and say it’s the way 
of the world and the Lord’s will that woman shall endure and 
endure — and die enduring.” 

“No,” said Sammy, thoughtfully, “we are not. And the 
world at large doesn’t expect it or demand it as it once did. It 


io6 


A Romance of the Road 


is growing fairer to women. There is more and more a tendency 
toward equalizing the responsibility — toward making the man 
understand that something is required of him just the same as of 
the woman.” 

At that moment, Ruby and Bess came in, hand in hand, their 
fingers on their lips. 

“Madge!” they whispered in hoarse concert. “You’ve a 
rival!” 

“I’ve a— a—” 

“A rival! Hist! girl! We’ll reveal all. ’Tis Clara. She 
smiles at Mr. Brocki when he draws ahead, and to-day she’s 
wearing a rose like those on his desk. Beware! and remember 
who it was that warned thee !” 

And with much mysterious rolling of the eyes and peeking 
about in the corners and under the desks, they tip-toed out 
again. 

I had to see Mr. Brocki about a claim adjustment and found 
him at his desk, with a far-away expression in his eyes. Madge 
and Mark haven’t had a falling out for some time, and it’s 
rather discouraging for Mr. Brocki. 

Coming down the stairs I overtook Lady Edith. We met the 
Doctor coming up, and right before my eyes this shameless 
couple exchanged a prolonged hand-clasp. 

Oh! these people in love! I run onto them at every turn. 
The atmosphere is simply teeming with the tender passion. I 
even suspect Marie and quiet little Signe. 

Lady Edith brought the backs-of-the-heads photographs from 
their hiding in her desk, fearing Madge might find them if she 
left them at home, and destroy them utterly. We laughed over 
them, and she said, “What nice hair Sammy has.” And I said, 


Wanted: A Villain 


107 


“Madge has a most beautifully shaped head.” And vve both 
said that the photos were as sweet as could be. 

“Why,” I said, “even the backs of their heads are expressive.” 

“They are,” said Lady Edith. “Can’t you just imagine them 
as looking away into the distance — sort of expectantly, perhaps — 
into the future?” 

“I can even see the expression of their eyes,” I said. 

Everything one of us said was agreed to by the other — so 
mutually dear and interesting and agreeable was the subject. 

Then as I sat at my desk all the afternoon I would remem- 
ber every little while about the villain Mr. Wells demanded, 
and wondered where I should find him. And then I would 
remember what he said about a love-affair. And something 
the Doctor once said kept coming to mind — about people who 
are stubbornly consistent, living up unremittingly, all their lives, 
regardless of the light of maturer reason, to an ideal laid out for 
themselves years before. 

And then I would go back to the demand for a villain. I 
thought of Mr. Brocki. He hadn’t looked lately as if his ship 
had sighted land. But Mr. Brocki wasn’t a good subject for a 
villain anyhow, I decided. Still — 

And this is what I saw when the night had come: 

At exactly twelve o’clock, I was called to come to a friend 
who had become suddenly ill. The friend lived on the lake front 
and I passed through a little park to reach her home. I walked 
and was alone ; and it was dark with an inky blackness. All the 
lights of the city were gone. I don’t know where. For some 
reason, I walked very near the water’s edge. Presently I heard 
voices and stopped to listen. 

It was Brocki and Mark, and they were quarreling. 

“My!” I said to myself. “This is interesting.” 


108 A Romance of the Road 

A flash of lightning at that moment illuminated the scene 
and — horrors ! I saw Mr. Brocki stabbing his successful rival. 

“O — o — oh!” I shuddered. “How bloody! and how 
thrilling!” 

I heard Mark’s groans and another flash showed Brocki 
threatening his own life with the dagger. 

Dear me ! This was tragic even to yellowness. “I must tone 
it down a little,” I thought, “to make it respectable.” But how 
kind and thoughtful of them to give me such a sensation for my 
story. 

There was another flash, and I saw the white face and slight 
form of a woman thrown upon the shore by the stormy waters. 

This was almost too much. Still it fitted in with the rest of 
it, and would make it all the more thrilling. Wouldn’t I sur- 
prise Mr. Wells, though, with Chapter twelve? 

Just at that moment another flash showed me the features of 
the woman. Horrors! It was Madge! 

With a scream, I sprang to reach her before she was again 
carried out by the storm and the waves. 

And then I found myself reeling from an awful blow on the 
top of my head. I thought for a moment that it was my finish, 
and, if so, I wondered who would finish my book. 

I am wondering to-day, just how much I injured my bed- 
room door, when, in my effort to rescue Madge, I did my best 
to jump clean through it. 

As for my head, — well, I’m so glad we’re a prosaic people, 
with never a villain in our midst, that I really don’t mind the 
hurt so very much. 

But I’m not going to look any more for villains and tragedies; 
and if I see one looking for me, or even casually strolling in my 
direction, I shall hide under my desk; — anything to keep out 
of its way. 


CHAPTER XIII 


A GRAY HAIR 

The impudent thing! There it was, as insolent as you please, 
and wearing an I’ve-come-to-stay expression that was too ex- 
asperating for human endurance, and I just snatched it right 
out with an Ell-show-you-whether-you-have-or-not vehemence 
which I hope will so discourage the others of its ilk — for doubt- 
less it was sent on ahead as an advance agent to pave the way 
for their coming — that they’ll unpack their trunks and remain 
right where they are till they’re invited. 

“Don’t you know that for every one you pull out, there will 
grow in three?” asked Lady Edith. 

“Then I’ll pull out the three of them,” I replied. 

“But think how perfectly beautiful white hair is,” said Miss 
Fedora. 

“It is,” I admitted, “when worn by others. But I don’t want 
it myself, and when they begin coming so thick as to make me 
bald if I pull them all out, I shall invent a restorative.” 

Then Miss Fedora and Lady Edith consoled me by saying 
that hair the color of mine wouldn’t show gray for a long while 
yet, and that same afternoon they, Sammy, Madge and myself, 
celebrated a part of our weekly half holiday, shopping. The 
four of them put me in a chair in front of a flattering milliner’s 
mirror and tried big hats on me. 

Isn’t it odd how a woman always dresses to please some one 
109 


no 


A Romance of the Road 


man? Madge dresses to please Mark. If he doesn’t like her 
hat or gown the unfortunate garment is banished. If he does 
like something she has, she wears it till it’s threadbare. Sammy 
has already begun to dress to please Oswald. Lady Edith con- 
sults the likes and dislikes of the Doctor. Years ago I wore 
small hats to please a man, and the habit has clung. 

“But,” said Lady Edith, “fifteen years make a big difference. 
While just any sort of a hat was well enough for you then, you 
and I now are reaching a period when we must select things 
with greater care.” 

“Oh! — oh! Don’t remind me that I am reaching an age 
that makes a difference. I don’t want to remember it.” 

“That’s why I’m telling you to be sensible and get a becom- 
ing hat.” 

“This, dear, is just what you are looking for,” said Sammy 
who had so critically examined the effect of each trying-on, that 
the saleswoman, a new one in the shop, asked, “Are you girls 
sisters?” And then I took heart — and I bought the hat wonder- 
ing, however, whether that was merely a stroke of business pol- 
icy on the part of the saleswoman. “But you know, Mother,” 
argued Sammy, “other people ask the same question, often.” 

“And if you will be sensible and dress in keeping with your 
looks, they will keep on saying it for some time to come,” put 
in Lady Edith. “And don’t let me see you wearing another un- 
becoming hat. Why, even Mr. Wells remarked to Miss Fe- 
dora and me this morning, that Mrs. Von. would be a lot better 
looking if she would wear larger hats.” 

I knew from Miss Fedora’s expression, that she hadn’t heard 
of it before, and we all laughed as Lady Edith blushed at being 
caught again, at her old trick. This, in her opinion, was 
an occasion for a touch of local color — and her little paint box is 
always ready. 


A Gray Hair 


hi 


“And as a result of this little trait of hers,” said the Doctor 
one day, “a story of the dullest hue in Lady Edith’s little paws, 
takes on a rainbow shading and sounds like a pretty fairy tale.” 

“Gee!” said Mr. Wells. “How the little blind god does pull 
the wool over some people’s eyes!” and Lady Edith, as usual, 
blushed again and, as usual, did it so prettily that we forgave 
her as we always do. 

On the evening after the hat episode, I had a long consulta- 
tion with my mirror. If I really am reaching the age when I 
must select my apparel more carefully than ever before, if it is 
really true that I am, then that extra care shall be forthcoming. 
I am going to be young just as long as I can. Why should I 
be old just as I am learning to live? Why should I give up, 
unresistingly, the appearance that causes people at this writing 
to think me the sister of my own daughter? 

I’ll tell you this: It isn’t going without a struggle on my part, 
and I say it unblushingly. 

I have seen a picture somewhere entitled “Ma and the Girls,” 
and you could scarcely distinguish “Ma” from the “Girls.” It 
was indicative of the times. I am glad that old ladies of forty 
are out of style. I am thankful for the dentists, the hairdressers, 
the manicurists, the tailors of to-day, whose duty and pleasure it 
is to help us keep young. 

Most of all I am thankful that it is out of style to be delicate. 
The lackadaisical woman of to-day, who constantly airs her ail- 
ments and expects attention and deference because of them, finds 
for herself a big disappointment. Fifty years ago she could have 
made them count. To-day a recital of them palls upon her 
audience. And this doesn’t mean that the people of to-day are 
less humane now than then, either. On the contrary their sym- 
pathies are deeper and broader and more genuine. Compare the 
people of to-day with those of fifty years ago on subjects worth 


1 12 


A Romance of the Road 


while and you will know that this is true. But these petty ail- 
ments are not worth while and they can’t humbug us any longer. 

“I have in mind a young girl in a country town,” said the 
Doctor one day on this subject at lunch, “who hasn’t learned 
that they don’t count. Her spinster sisters haven’t learned it. 
Her parents haven’t learned it. Hence the whole family bore 
their friends with a recital of Irma’s ails and ills and her deli- 
cate state of health generally. Really they are positively vain- 
glorious over it. To their way of thinking, it somehow sets 
Irma just a little apart from others and a little above her asso- 
ciates. It is surely a certain sign that she is made of clay just a 
little finer than that of her friends. And Irma puts a very white 
hand to her forehead and simpers and sighs and shirks, and is 
perfectly happy in her role of intense misery. Irma has an aunt,” 
he continued, smiling, “who makes you look at the photographs 
of all her friends and relatives, and entertains you with long 
stories about them. I never could decide which was the greater 
bore, Irma or the aunt.” 

Shortly after that gray hair incident I had a most trying day 
in the office. It promised from the moment I reached my desk 
to be a record-breaker. My correspondence was all in a tangle. 
Every letter was a complaint. Some mistakes had been made in 
the factory and consequently there were some troublesome trace- 
ments and adjustments. 

In a spirit of complaint I went to the Doctor’s desk to talk it 
over but before I realized it I was telling him about the fear that 
haunted me — the fear of growing old. I had that day received 
a postcard that was different from the others; and the artist had 
half denounced his anonymity by boldly signing a couple of in- 
itials — “H. M.” This card pictured two commercial travelers, 
a man and a woman, and to each of the sample cases there was a 
ridiculously bef rilled string of lovers’ knots — and holding these 


A Gray Hair 


ii3 

reins there was an absurd little cupid, trotting along with all his 
might, in an effort to keep pace with the commercial idea of 
locomotion. 

Under some conditions this card could be construed as sug- 
gestive — but, of course, knowing the sender — and the recipient — 

Still it obtruded itself into my consciousness. It made its 
presence felt ; and this presence did not lessen the fear. 

Maybe it was a childish thing to do — to go to the Doctor — 
but in spite of all my declared intentions to stand pat, and to 
shoo back the gray hairs as fast as they dared come, I somehow 
wanted to hear this self-contained ex-physician say something on 
the subject. I needed his encouragement. 

He looked at me over his glasses and said “Forget it.” Then 
he looked back at the papers on his desk and I thought I was 
dismissed, but he looked up again and said, “You are going to 
have the very thing you don’t want unless you quit being afraid. 
Do you realize what a terrible thing fear is ? Do you know that 
it slays its countless thousands every year? If you want heart 
trouble, just lay awake nights and listen to your pulse. If you 
want sick headaches, examine your tongue and look for signs of 
biliousness and they are sure to come. If you want stomach- 
trouble, put your mind constantly on your stomach. Fear for it, 
dwell upon it, and it won’t disappoint you. If you want any 
organ or gland of your body to go on a strike, just give it a dose 
of fear and self-consciousness and it will not fail you.” 

“But Doctor,” I said tremblingly, “Doctor,” — and I felt my 
throat getting dry from the effort — “Isn’t it true that men al- 
ways prefer women a great deal younger than themselves ? Isn’t 
it — isn’t it — don’t you think that I’m too — too — that is, haven’t 
I waited too long to — to — ” 

The Doctor burst out laughing. 

“No! they don’t! And — no! You haven’t! Do you think I 


A Romance of the Road 


114 


care less for Lady Edith because of the few gray threads in her 
pretty hair? Why I love every one of them. A man of suit- 
able age for you, Mrs. Von., if he is worth while at all, will 
prefer you for the very reasons you fear he may not.” 

“Well, I’m not contemplating a — a — I merely wished to 
know — what! — ” 

“Of course. That was all. We all know your ideas about 
second marriages.” He laughed a little and said, “But to return 
— as I said before — forget it. If you need to be a little more 
careful of your dress, if a little more careful selection of styles or 
materials is necessary, just forget why. You are only as old as 
you believe yourself. Forget your birthdays. I haven’t counted 
one for several years and I’m no older than when I quit. Keep 
yourself so actively busy that the hinges haven’t time to rust. 
Put what I’m saying in your book if you like. It may help some 
man or woman to wake up, just as it helped me when I first 
realized its truth. And keep right at that book till it’s finished. 
You’re enjoying it. You tell me you have completely changed 
the summer’s plans for your limited spare time because of it. 
You’re sitting up nights and working Sundays and you don’t 
begrudge a moment of the time. Do you think of any other 
work you could do so enjoyably after toiling all day at your 
office desk ? I would wonder how you manage to do it all, ex- 
cept that I know it is the busy man or woman who does things. 
The people of leisure never have any time. While you are put- 
ting the rest of us in your story, you are putting yourself into 
its every page. ‘Write,’ said George Sand, ‘while the gods and 
not memory dictate to you.’ The gods are dictating. Don’t let 
fear drive them away. Don’t give it an inch of quarter. Why 
should you? Are you not told that ‘perfect love casteth out 
fear?’ 

“This break in the monotony of the afternoon,” continued he 


A Gray Hair 


ii5 


presently, “isn’t going to hurt us, or hinder our work, though 
our desks are piled to the ceiling. A plant, to thrive, must have 
a change of diet occasionally. Keep it shut up in a close, dark 
room with never a bit of sunshine, or fresh air, and it will die.” 

I had never seen the Doctor in just that mood before, and I 
was convinced again that I had only begun to know him. He 
looked out over the lake a moment and added thoughtfully : 

“If it’s mirrors you want, Mrs. Von, they’re all about you. 
The whole universe is but a mirror of the soul, reflecting back 
to us, our real selves, our unlimited selves. Our great problem 
is to live up to our possibilities. It is our privilege to gaze up 
at the wonderful blue dome of the sky, and to know that we 
are as great as that; to look up at the stars and realize some- 
thing of our own sublimity. We may watch the ocean and know 
that something within us is equally majestic. We are made in 
His image and likeness and He is spirit. And spirit is un- 
limited. Don’t forget that.” 

I went back to my desk, comforted. Dictation came easily. 
Snarls were quickly untangled. And I knew that it was all be- 
cause I, myself, had gotten into the right mental attitude. 
Never before had I realized in exactly the same way, or under 
exactly the same circumstances, the absolute necessity for putting 
myself right first, in order that all else may be right. 

As I closed my desk at five o’clock, the Doctor handed me 
this prescription: “One bale of sunshine; one-half barrel peace 
and good will; one ton of faith and an equal part of demon- 
strated courage. Mix thoroughly; shake well before taking; 
swallow it by the quart measure. Forget your birthdays — and 
the mulligrubs will fly out at the window.” 

He was in a more jovial mood now but he had given me a 
glimpse at his real self that I shall not forget. What a tower 
of strength he will be to Lady Edith. 


CHAPTER XIV 


DOG DAYS 


August in the Ozarks. 

“Dear Sammy’s Mother: — Thank you for the privilege of read- 
ing the old and the new chapter eleven. While I confess to a sneak- 
ing sort of desire to have a finger in the pie, yet, to spare Sammy’s 
blushes I’m willing merely to sit on the fence and watch the pro- 
cession of the more favored ones as they pass. Now wouldn’t you 
call that generous? 

“I like the name you have given me in the story — Oswald. Since 
I am depicted as a woodsman and a mountaineer, which I am, the 
name is particularly appropriate, if we associate the last syllable 
with the foreign word in its literal meaning. 

“I have never regretted my mountains, and when I read Hagel 
I am even glad. You remember how he maintains that the moun- 
taineers are the people who think the best thoughts and lead the 
best lives, and who, in times of great military crises, swoop down 
upon the enemy and save the country just in the nick of time. 

“I know a thousand simple hillbillies down here in the Ozarks 
who will never cut any sort of a figure in the world’s history, I am 
sure, still, I like what Hagel says, and so much do I love my native 
hills that I am spending every moment of my vacation right here in 
their midst. And they are beautiful even in dog days. 

“Did you notice the complimentary salutation I employed in be- 
ginning this letter? What greater compliment could I pay you than 
to address you as Sammy’s mother? 

“And here’s another: Did you ever notice that the daughter 
often grows to be very much like the mother? This is particularly 
true when there is companionship and harmony of understanding 
between them. Well I am willing that Sammy shall grow to be 
like her mother. 

“And here’s one for myself : I cannot conceive of a greater privi- 

116 


Dog Days 


ii 7 


lege or honor, than to subscribe myself as Sammy’s — but I must 
go no further, for what if Mr. Wells or Mr. Chance or the girls 
should read it ! Sincerely, 

“Oswald/' 

He’s a diplomat, that’s what he is. But it is rather a nice 
sort of a letter, and I’m going to put it right here in chapter 
fourteen, to sort of make up for the hole knocked in eleven. 

Really, I’m grieving over chapter eleven. You know it’s al- 
ways the things that shouldn’t be told that we wish to hear. 

If my friends find out that it isn’t safe, these days, to even 
write to me, I shan’t have any personal correspondence to reply 
to until these pages are safely in print. 

And, so, these are dog days! I hadn’t thought of it till Os- 
wald’s mention of the fact, but, come to consider, I know, from 
a number of proofs, that the sun’s rays, these days, are falling 
upon the earth with the greatest strength of the season, and that 
the breath of the hot winds is searing the foliage of the fields and 
gardens, out where fields and gardens grow. 

Modern astronomers have done away with the old idea of the 
ancients about the action of the dog star at this particular sea- 
son, but they have left us the dog days. And they are just full 
of memories. You haven’t forgotten, have you, how you were 
told to stay out of the water — to not even wade in it! — during 
dog days? It was covered, you know, with a green scum, and 
the outcast “snakefeeder,” haunted the unwholesomeness of it. 
Haven’t you often followed this disreputable old “snakefeeder,” 
watching him suspiciously as he darted hither and thither, just 
far enough ahead for you to imagine you had detected him in the 
act of his nefarious calling? He is usually associated in the 
minds of the children of the country, with the dreaded “devil’s 
darning needle” that will sew up your ears if you don’t watch 
out. 


i iS A Romance of the Road 

And don’t you remember how you fled in terror from faith- 
ful old Bruno, these dog days, if you but caught him panting 
from thirst? 

And you remember, too, the delight of feeling the warm 
August dust squeeze up between your toes as you went patter- 
ing down the dry country road, stopping at the big oak to throw 
yourself upon the dusty grass beneath it, to watch the white 
clouds that seemed to have been hurled over the horizon by 
some great, unseen hand. 

The air was deliciously heavy with a great quiet which 
was accentuated by the hum of a distant thresher and with eyes 
half closed, you traced wonderful outlines in the fleecy clouds 
that were like piles and piles of wool and feathers. You saw 
white castles and gold-tipped mountains, and sometimes, you 
would think for an instant, that you had very nearly caught 
a glimpse of the City Celestial. 

Then, the day advanced, and other mysteries claimed you. 
The katydids tuned up early at this season, for the evening 
concert. The cows came lowing up the lane at dusk. A whip- 
poor-will, in the distance, began his plaintive cry. There was 
an owl in the apple tree by the well, and, though you knew 
he was there, yet, when he lifted up his voice to join in the 
chorus, you were startled. 

These night noises ! how mysterious they were and how they 
sent you scuttling indoors with all sorts of shivery sensations 
chasing one another up and down your spinal column. And 
then, presently, in dreamland, you lived it all over again with 
impossible variations, and before you knew it, another day was 
looking in at you through the windows. 

Close upon the heels of dog days, comes Indian Summer, 
another mystery, and about this time, you were walking two 
miles every morning with a lunch pail hanging to you, heavy 


Dog Days 


119 


at first, but considerably lightened by the beginning of the sec- 
ond mile, for you were always hungry those days, and, besides, 
you needed something to keep up your courage; for Indian 
Summer was suspiciously associated in your mind with the 
Apaches, and how did you know what might be waiting for 
you at the very next turn of the road. 

You felt like a martyr, anyhow, to the cause of education, 
and every morning, with a rebellious feeling inside of you, you 
marched up to the little old rough board building, where a 
slender girl teacher, each morning smiled at you from behind 
her crude desk, and then you took your seat and smiled back, 
and, each morning, decided that, maybe, there was something in 
it, after all. 

It is rather a jolt to come back to the present after this 
visit with the yesterdays, but the girls are clamoring for at- 
tention. They have forty and one stories to tell about their 
week-end at Fox Lake, and we’ve all got to listen. 

Once, last Spring, I heard Mr. Wells say that he was plan- 
ning to invite a few of his orphans to Fox Lake for a day or so 
when he was settled there for the Summer, and the plan came 
true. 

Sammy, Madge, Esther, Ruby, and some of the others, got 
in on the plea of being half orphans, and insist that they had 
just as fine a time as if they hadn’t had mothers. And woe be 
unto the unfortunate one, now, who would dare to insinuate 
that maybe there have been others as great since Lincoln, as 
Mr. Wells. 

While the fortunate ones were reveling at Fox Lake, the 
Fates, knowing that we were lonely, sent us, one day, the 
queerest visitor we ever tried to entertain. He asked to be 
shown over the building, expressing a desire, particularly, to see 
our laboratories. The Doctor summoned a guide, but before 


120 


A Romance of the Road 


the guide came, he had changed his mind aad said it 
was our representative in his home town that he wished 
to talk about, as it was she who asked him to call on us 
while in Chicago. His state was a part of Lady Edith’s ter- 
ritory, and Lady Edith was called upon to contribute to his 
entertainment, and to tell him how proud we were of the bus- 
iness our Mrs. Brown had worked up in his part of the country. 
Lady Edith, waxing eloquent, was throwing in a few splashes 
of color here and there, as is her way, when the visitor said 
he guessed it wasn’t Mrs. Brown he wished to talk about, after 
all ; that he had met one of our travelers once, and that he had 
a friend who wished a road position with us. This touched 
Miss Fedora’s realm, and it was her turn now, to become not 
only eloquent, but inquiring. We demand certain things of 
our travelers. Now did he believe that this friend of his could 
come up to the standard? etc., etc. And he said he didn’t 
know and that he didn’t much care, and that he thought, after 
all, what he wished to do was to gaze out at the lake from our 
East windows. 

Do you know what was the matter with him ? He told the 
Doctor all about it. The poor fellow was on his wedding tour, 
while the bride remained at home. 

“It is this way,” he explained. “In our little town, you ain’t 
in it unless you take a trip after you’re married. Me an’ Mollie 
had saved up for it a long time, and then after buyin’ our 
weddin’ outfits there was just enough left to pay expenses for 
one. I ’lowed to Mollie that both of us might go just a little 
way and be together. But Mollie, she had her heart set on a 
trip to Chicago, an’ to settle it we drawed straws to see which’d 
come, an’ I got the lucky straw.” 

We watched him as he walked down the avenue, stopping to 
look at the windows without seeing their display, listening to the 


Dog Days 


121 


music of the band without hearing it — altogether a picture of 
loneliness and homesickness. 

Speaking of lovers, I am reminded again of Myra. She has 
written another letter to Mrs. Watson. “When I think of that 
poor girl, the heartache of it, her silence, and yet her longing 
for sympathy,” said Mrs. Watson, “I am like her: I could cry 
and cry.” 

“Doesn’t she ever talk with you about it?” I asked. 

“Not a word. The hurt is too deep. She talks to me freely 
enough on other subjects, though she holds herself a little aloof 
from the girls. I think it is because she fears that acquaintance 
might invite curiosity and she dreads being questioned. It is 
all on her mind constantly and sometimes she reaches a point 
where she simply must unburden herself — poor child!” Mrs. 
Watson’s eyes were full as she hurried on upstairs. 

This is the letter: 

“Dear Mrs. Watson : — Did you ever go about your work, smil- 
ing and talking — did you ever go to and from your work as other 
people do — did you ever eat and drink and sleep as other people — 
and feel all the time as if you must scream out sometimes that it is 
all a pretense, a sham, a lie, and that you wish you were dead ? 

“Don’t think me ungrateful. I am thankful for the work — for the 
pleasant surroundings — for your friendship. It has all done won- 
ders for me. Just how much, I shall never be able to tell you. 
There are days and days when I can feel as I have said to you be- 
fore — that there is something ahead of me worth living for. And 
I climb up the steep, rough mountain side, step by step, until I can 
almost see the light at the top — and then something happens to 
send me back down to the awfulness and the cold of the blackness 
below. This time, it was a dream. I went all over it again in my 
sleep last night. I was a little barefoot girl of the tie-hackers, play- 
ing with Billy in the early Spring on the slopes where the sun shone 
warm and the violets first grew. 

“Then I was fifteen, wearing my new shoes with the squeak in 
them. We hill children never felt quite sure that shoes were really 
new unless they squeaked. 


122 


A Romance of the Road 


“I had new ribbons on my hair and a bran new print frock. Ah! 
It was a gloriously happy day. 

“Then I lived over again, my sixteenth birthday and the days of 
joy that followed — and then the newspaper notice that Mr. Hallett 
brought me! And I awoke with my blood freezing, just as I did the 
next day after I had read it that first time. 

“If you have time to-day, Mrs. Watson, and if it isn’t asking too 
much, would you mind kissing me just once? You are so pretty 
and sweet, and though you’re just a girl yourself, I like to make 
believe, sometimes, that you are my mother. Sometimes I see 
Sammy’s and Madge’s mothers kiss them. Why, if I really did have 
a mother to kiss me, I know the pain would be easier. The ache in 
my heart would not hurt so. 

“I am away down in the depths, Mrs. Watson, and it is a long 
way up to the top of the mountain. Myra.” 


CHAPTER XV 


CORADELL 

Speaking of visits, I have just made one myself — and thereby 
hangs an incident on which I had not reckoned. 

If there is any one particular fruit for which I have a de- 
cided weakness, it is the peach. I have never yet seen it in any 
style, cooked or uncooked, but that it met with my entire ap- 
proval, and the O. K. of my best new stamp, freshly inked. 

But right now — well, I’m not exactly sick of peaches, but too 
much of even a very good thing sort of palls upon the imagina- 
tion. 

I’ve been to Coradell’s in peach-canning time! And I’m 
haunted by peaches. 

Even the sandman chuckles when he passes round the dreams. 
He knows which one is coming to me. Last night as I drove 
down Michigan Avenue, in every cross street there were tubs 
and tubs of peaches, and Coradell’s neighbors were seated round 
paring as if their lives depended upon it. Conspicuous in their 
midst was myself. I wore a gingham apron and worked with a 
black-handled “case” knife, with the end worn off to a point 
from frequent grinding. Great jars for the pared and halved 
peaches were rapidly filled, and as rapidly carried away, and 
presently the streets were lined on either side, as far as the eye 
could see, with rows and rows of peach cans, full to the brim. 

Cousin Tom and his men again filled the tubs, and we went 
123 


124 


A Romance of the Road 


on and on like machinery, and all the time we were laughing, and 
talking and saying what a good time we were having. 

Just at that moment the mules that drew my automobile, 
expired right before our eyes from an over-gorge of peaches, and 
as a punishment, the police compelled me to make up their skins 
into caps for people with peach heads. 

And in the dream there was one who took no part in any 
of it. He didn’t help with the peaches. He didn’t help me 
with the caps. He didn’t even oppose the sentence. He just 
loitered around and whenever I looked up I always saw him. 
Somehow I felt that I had met him somewhere and kept nag- 
ging my memory for an answer; and then suddenly he looked 
at me — f nd I saw a pair of brown eyes with a twinkle in them ! 
And I wondered if my hair was all out of curl and if my nose 
was shining. It was the search for my powder puff that awoke 
me. 

A week ago \yhen my cousin Coradell invited me out for a 
few days’ visit to her^ country home, I almost suspected some- 
thing. You can never tell what Coradell has up her sleeve. 
But I figured that it couldn’t be house cleaning: the warm 
weather forbade it. It couldn’t be sewing for the heathen, be- 
cause the missionary society doesn’t sew during August. Maybe 
she just wanted to see me and give me a relaxation from the 
strenuousness of the city. Yes, that was it. 

I’m fond of Coradell. She’s pretty nearly the only relative 
I have in this part of the world, and when I get a longing to see 
some of my own kin, I find a lot of comfort in a visit with her. 
I felt an attack of that old longing coming on. Already it was 
sending long-distance messages. Very soon, it would be in 
speaking distance. Then presently it would clutch me fast and 
tight, and a matching of forces would leave me just a little 


Coradell 


12 $ 

weaker to resist the next attack. A visit with Coradell wou’ld 
be a saving proposition. 

Alas ! I had forgotten that it was peach-canning time ! And 
I didn’t know that the experiences of that week-end would 
furnish nightmare material for many nights to come. 

Between the disappearance and arrival of the peach-tubs, that 
first day with Coradell, she was at the ’phone, advising with her 
club committee and discussing the course of study for the com- 
ing year, or asking this one and that one to fry half a dozen spring 
chickens, or make a salad for the minister’s dinner next day; 
maybe it would be the farewell dinner, for you could never tell 
what Conference would do to the minister. He virtually takes 
his life in his hands when he appears in that great and august 
body. Sometimes — that is, once in a while — he is sent back to 
the old flock who love him and ask for his return. Sometimes 
he is invited to come up a little higher. And then — sometimes 
— in fact, often, he is sent about from pillar to post — just any 
place where the congregation want a change and can’t pay much. 
And very often he goes each year to a charge where the salary is 
smaller and the people less appreciative, than the last. 

And then there comes a time when there isn’t any place for 
him at all, and, like the old hack horse that has given his best 
and his all to those he served, he is led out to some unfrequented 
spot, so as to not shock the nerves of his old associates — and is 
shot. 

But this is done, remember, outside the city limits, and that 
same year a young theological student, who has mercifully been 
spared the sad spectacle, steps forward to fill the gap. 

So this dinner was, perhaps, a farewell dinner, and Coradell 
was determined that it should be a success, and that the min- 
ister should have plenty of fried chicken and salad and friendly 
greetings, so that, if this conference should mean for him, just 


126 


A Romance of the Road 


another little shove toward the ministerial precipice, he should, 
at least, have one delightful day before going. 

And when Cousin Coradell makes up her mind to do a 
thing, all the opposing forces, seen and unseen, would just as 
well run up the flag of surrender. 

The various societies of which she is president — Coradell is 
always president — count their prosperity from the date of her 
election. She’s a natural born general — the sort of general who 
can get more work out of you than you ever knew was there, 
and who can make you feel, all the time, that you are doing it 
just because you like it. And when one task is done, you 
are not happy till the general has told you of other worlds to 
conquer. Why, I actually grew impatient that day over the 
waste of time between the rosy-cheeked supplies, and attacked a 
tub of them with a do-or-die determination, second to nothing 
that I ever before experienced. 

And at the ministerial dinner, where most of the next day 
was spent, I was busy again, for there was the quilt that was 
being made for a minister out in Montana. 

Coradell seemed present everywhere at one and the same mo- 
ment. She superintended the tables, presided at a committee 
meeting in another room, and kept a dozen of us busy sewing 
big square blocks of wool together — and made us believe we 
were having the time of our lives. To look at Coradell you 
would never suspect what a spirit of generalship lurks beneath 
that perfectly calm exterior presented by the classic features and 
big blue eyes. If I can wheedle her into giving me a photograph, 
I’ll put it in the book with the rest of us, so you can see for 
yourself. 

She was a teacher in the public schools before Cupid came 
along and showed her that there was one youngster in the world 
who wasn’t afraid of her. I’ve always suspected, though, that 


Coradell 


1 27 


Coradell led him a strenuous chase before finally succumbing to 
his wiles, and I’m just sure that she didn’t cry quits without 
plainly telling the little imp that she was giving in just because 
she wished to do so, of her own accord, and that he needn’t 
imagine his victory great enough to place another feather in 
his cap. 

Coradell’s great regret is that she has no children. She is 
perfectly sure, that if she did, she would teach us all, in a very 
methodical and precise manner, a valuable and abiding lesson 
in child-rearing. But I don’t hold that against her. We all 
think that at first, and the people who never have any children, 
believe it all their lives. 

Being childless, Coradell lavishes all her mother-love upon her 
big husband. He shies at having theories worked out upon him, 
but he doesn’t, in the least, object to being the object of her 
tender and undivided ministrations. 

You have time, out in Coradell’s little town, to stop in the 
middle of the day to visit if you feel inclined, and you have 
friends to love you, and neighbors to help you, and frogs to 
sing you to sleep, and other luxuries not found in the city. It’s 
a charming place, and next year, if the peach crop is a failure, I 
shall make another visit to Coradell. 


CHAPTER XVI 


THAT OTHER TRAVELER 

Minneapolis, September 5th. 

If I were counting birthdays, I should add another milestone 
to my journey, today. But I never was good at figures; and 
besides, the Doctor’s prescription forbids me to remember these 
yearly monuments. And I always did believe that if you employ 
a physician, you ought to obey his instructions to the letter — else 
why employ him? Now, I am most willing to obey my physi- 
cian in this instance, and to forget that September fifth is any 
different for me, or of any more importance than the other 
three hundred and sixty-four days in the year — but this has 
been a September fifth to be remembered. 

First of all, I did my work quickly and by ten o’clock I was 
in the park. I never fail to visit the beautiful Minnehaha falls 
when I am in Minneapolis — but I haven’t said a word as to 
the why of my present visit. 

Well, Mr. Wells gave the same old reasons: There was a 
strip of territory up here that he wdshed to have worked before 
cold weather. And then there were a few points down farther 
South that I could “make” and be absent, altogether, not more 
than two months. He, himself, was too lazy and Mr. Chance 
too fat. And besides, neither of them had to go. There was 
nobody to send either of them out on any errand whatsoever. 
Lady Edith was too much in love and Miss Fedora was too 

128 


That Other Traveler 


129 


pretty. Evidently I was none of these and, as a penalty for my 
shortcomings, here I am. 

The little park and the falls and the gulch, beautiful always, 
are even more than that right now. The first frosts have done 
themselves proud in their decoration of the foliage, and in the 
air, everywhere, is that indescribable something, that sets apart 
the Autumn so distinctly from any other season. 

It was a lovely and a quiet morning out there and I was busy 
with my thoughts. I closed my eyes, as I always do at this 
spot, and tried to see it as the poet had seen it when he wrote 
the wildly beautiful story that has made it interesting, if not 
famous. 

“Water — water — ” 

The voice was brought up to me from the gulch. 

“Water — daughter — ” 

What could it mean? Was someone in distress? 

“Daughter — arrow-maker’s daughter — ” 

Maybe it was a lunatic! And I dropped down behind the 
wall. Luckily, I was near the end and could peek round. 

Presently, I discovered a black derby hat. It was moving 
leisurely upward, in my direction, and I surmised that the per- 
son under it was climbing the steps that led up from the gulch. 
I didn’t dare move. Perhaps if I was not discovered, he would 
go peaceably away ; and like as not in another direction. 

You can never tell what a lunatic will do. 

I peeked again, and — horrors! The hat was coming nearer 
and nearer. 

I crouched behind a clump of shrubbery. If the worst came, 
I should simply outrun him. How glad I was that I could 
run. Suppose, now, I was built like Lady Edith? Why, I 
should simply be gobbled up alive! 

“Minnehaha — Laughing water — ” 


130 


A Romance of the Road 


Poor creature! Like as not, he was harmless enough, after 
all, and no doubt easily quelled by the steady gaze of reason — • 
the strength of the superior mind over the inferior. I had heard 
of such things and would try it if necessary. 

Everything was so perfectly quiet for a few moments, that I 
began to hope he had gone away, and then — 

“There! I wonder how that will sound on a postcard: 

“When Hiawatha traveled far. 

To woo the arrow-maker’s daughter, 

And threw the still, warm red-buck down 
Before the lovely Laughing Water, 

He loved the beauty of the place — 

The wakeful stream, the maiden fair; 

Noted the lissome, girlish grace, 

The rosebud beauty of her face, 

And knew his heart was captive there. 

He saw the skies above him bent, 

Thanked the Great Spirit who had sent 
His truant feet afar to roam,, 

To this first hint of heaven and home.” 

I could hear the steps climbing rather rapidly now, and, fear 
gone, I rose hurriedly, assumed an air of unconsciousness and 
looked in another direction, till I knew he had stopped, at sight 
of me, and then I glanced carelessly round — and looked straight 
into the eyes I had seen the night I made mule-skin caps. 

The next instant, we were shaking hands and saying how 
pleased we were to meet again. 

“I thought you were a lunatic,” I said, “until I heard you 
read it all aloud.” 

“And then you found I was something just a little less dan- 
gerous — a verse-maker.” 

“Oh ! I don’t agree to that,” thinking of Sammy and Madge. 
“I only wish I could do it.” 

“If there’s a streak of it in a fellow’s make-up, this gulch and 







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8 






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mm. 










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That Other Traveler 


131 

waterfall will worm it out of him in spite of himself. I’ve trav- 
eled far, but this little spot, for clear-cut beauty, beats anything 
of its hind that I have ever seen.” 

“It seems that the verse is to grace a postcard. Maybe it 
would have joined its relatives had I remained at home.” 

He laughed and said, “Didn’t that old stove perform just as 
Mr. Section, the section boss, prophesied?” 

“I thought I had the falls and the park all to myself this 
morning,” I said suddenly and ungraciously, for at that mo- 
ment I remembered Mrs. Grundy — and I remembered the 
sketch of the little Cupid holding the reins of lovers’ knots. 

“I thought the same thing about myself,” he said, “but I’m 
glad you can share it with me.” He read the sudden chill of 
my changed attitude. “And so are you. Your first greeting told 
me so. Don’t you remember that we were properly introduced 
by Miss Delia? What more could we ask? I’m a gentleman 
and so are you. I mean — •” We both laughed. “Well you 
know what I mean,” he continued. “So let’s pretend today 
that we don’t have to work for a living. I see other visitors 
coming. The place will be full of them pretty soon, and I 
wish to have another look at the falls from the gulch before it 
is swarming with sight-seers.” 

I told him about my birthday, except that I wasn’t counting 
it, and he said I had made a wise selection of time; that Sep- 
tember was a most beautiful month, and that for his own birth- 
day, he had chosen the Thanksgiving month, and that he had a 
friend who had made his advent on Christmas day. 

“But for patriotism,” I said, “our Mr. Chance beats any of 
us. He was born on the fourth of July.” 

The old familiar twinkle lit up his eyes: “You don’t expect 
me to rave about the Fourth of July do you?” We laughed 
again and suddenly discovered that all embarrassment was gone 


132 


A Romance of the Road 


and that a spirit of fellowship had taken its place; and I said 
magnanimously: “Well I won’t hold it against you, your being 
English. I never did believe in twitting people about their mis- 
fortunes.” 

“As I remarked once before, if I were not English, I should 
wish to be American. That should, surely, put me in your good 
graces. And now, it must be time for lunch. There are tables 
and chairs on one side of the park. Suppose I forage round a 
bit and see what I can find. We’ll have a picnic under the 
trees.” 

By the time he returned, with cheese, crackers, a bunch of 
grapes, canned peaches and ginger snaps, a couple of tin spoons 
and a tin cup, I had the table covered with my newspaper, a 
bench drawn up and the leaves brushed away. 

“How did you do the sweeping?” he asked. 

“With switches from the gulch. It made me think of the 
play houses of long ago, when other little school girls and 
myself, played keep-house under the trees. Sometimes we had 
to let the boys into the game to keep them from breaking in and 
kicking over the furniture. Know anything about it?” 

He shook his head. “I wasn’t educated with girls.” 

“Well, you don’t know what you missed. Here, let me divide 
the peaches. You may eat yours from the cup. Peaches and 
ginger cakes go well together. You’re a good forager.” 

“There wasn’t much to choose from, but almost anything 
would be palatable under conditions like these. Isn’t it 
glorious ?” 

“Almost as nice as the ‘suppers’ at Miss Delia’s,” I said, and 
we laughed together over our experiences down there. 

It is said of Cato that he looked upon the table, as one of 
the best means of forming friendships. And this Other Traveler 
and myself were just lonely enough, to-day, to each appreciate 


That Other Traveler 


133 


the sight of a familiar face. We told each other how good 
business was. That’s a trick of the commercial traveler. Bus- 
iness is always good. We each copied the other’s route sheet, 
promising to send a post card occasionally if we had time. That’s 
another commercial habit: You’ve always got to be in a hurry 
and you’ve got to make people understand why: you are just 
full of business. 

We fed the leavings of our lunch to the bears, looked through 
the high, wire fence at the elk, and took a farewell view of the 
gulch and the falls. 

“And now, we’ll ride to the city together,” he said. “I 
must go to St. Paul this evening, the other twin. Cute little 
conceit that, about the twins, Paul and Minnie. Oh! wait a 
minute ! Here’s a water beetle on his back in the dust. That 
means as sure death to him as deep water would mean to me, if 
I couldn’t swim. I’ll be back in a moment.” 

“What did you do with him?” I asked, as he returned. 

“Put him in the tank by the bear pen. You should have 
seen how he sort of stretched out and felt of himself to see if he 
was hurt, and then struck out for a swim. I could almost hear 
him chuckle.” 

“There are some flowers in the path, there, by that lilac 
bush.” 

“Yes; somebody must have dropped an armful of them.” 

“I saw you carefully avoid stepping on them.” 

“Well?” 

“Oh ! nothing. I was just thinking. A man who won’t step 
on a flower, and who rescues water-beetles — well, I was think- 
ing — ” 

“Out with it.” 

“When a woman sees that in a man, she knows that she has 


134 


A Romance of the Road 


looked at a beautiful blending of strength and gentleness; and 
she likes it. Oh ! we’ve missed our car.” 

“There’ll be another in ten minutes. We’ll rest here while 
I recover. You’ve made me blush to the roots of my hair, and 
that is a long way.” 

“Never mind,” I said soothingly. “I don’t object to baldness 
in men at all. I almost like it.” 

My thoughts went back to my first real, grown-up admirer. 
I was seventeen; he was thirty, and bald. I just adored that 
bald spot, and ever since, I’ve had a weakness for them. 

“It was a dreadful blow to me, the loss of my hair,” con- 
tinued the Other Traveler. “It was my one great vanity. I 
was as proud of my brown locks as a girl, and when I came out 
of it, and saw the havoc the fever had wrought, I just turned 
my face to the wall, and, big strapping fellow as I was, I shed 
some of the bitterest, homesickishest tears, of my life.” 

I gave the ghost of a smile at the adjective and asked, “Were 
you a long way from home?” 

“In India.” 

“An English soldier?” 

“How did you guess? But never mind. I suppose my seven 
years of it left their ear marks. Here’s our car.” 

Keokuk, Sept. 14. 

When I went down to breakfast this morning, whom do you 
suppose I found in the dining room? I’ll let you guess. 

“How did you know I was in Keokuk? and how did you 
know you would find me at this hotel ?” I asked. 

There was a gleam of amusement behind the glasses, and I 
realized that I was taking a good deal for granted, and felt 
foolish. 

“Really, you are not far wrong, after all,” he said, coming 


That Other Traveler 


135 


to my rescue. “I had an opportunity to change my route a 
little, and when I remembered that you were just about Sun- 
daying here yourself, I said ‘Why not?’ and here I am. Aren’t 
you glad to breakfast with me ? This will be a glorious morning 
to visit another park.” 

I said I was glad, and that I should like to spend the morn- 
ing in a park, and felt quite at ease again. That’s the way of 
this Other Traveler: He always makes you comfortable — and 
now you’ve guessed. 

Presently, he laughed and said, “I wonder if he’s there yet — 
that old buffalo bull. It was just about a year ago that I was 
here and went to the park with a couple of books for company. 
I found a nice seat under a tree and proceeded to enjoy myself. 
Presently, I noticed a big buffalo bull, pawing and bellowing in 
the distance, I didn’t take much notice of him till I discovered 
that I was the object of his wrath. Do you wish to hear the 
rest of it?” 

I nodded. “It sounds like a fairy story so far. Please go 
on.” 

“Right here is the place where it ceases to be fairy-like. I 
shinned up that tree more like a monkey than anything else, 
just as Mr. Buffalo reached the spot. He pawed the life out of 
the book I dropped, and called me all sorts of insulting names 
before the Irish park-keeper came to my rescue. Do you wish 
to know what the Irishman did?” 

I nodded : “I think now, that it’s a fish story.” 

“Well, that Irish park keeper brought a board with him,” he 
continued, in the tone one assumes when telling a story to chil- 
dren. “He used that board for a paddle. ‘Phwat’s the matter 
wid yez?’ he asked the bull with each whack. And the bull, 
not having any good reason to give for his bad behavior, was 
soon spanked into submission and remained as meek as a lamb 


136 T A Romance of the Road 

the rest of the day, grazing about as innocently as if nothing had 
happened.” 

“Did you stay and read?” 

“To be sure, I did. But I don’t mind saying that I remained 
near the tree.” 

“Was the tree an easy one to climb?” 

“Very. A great spreading one with low branches. We’ll 
sit under it this morning.” 

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to take a paddle along? You 
see, I believe every word of it, so now, tell me another.” 

“All right. I had a dream recently, and it was about you.” 

“I like dreams. They are so interesting ; and the best part of 
it is, they are like fairy stories; they never come true.” 

“Well, I dreamed that time had ended, and I was standing 
within the Pearly Gates, looking for somebody I had not yet 
seen. Someone saw me and asked whom I wished to see, and I 
said ‘Alice.’ Then they brought many Alices — ‘Alice Where 
Art Thou,’ ‘Alice in Wonderland,’ ‘Sweet Alice whose Hair 
was so Brown,’ and others. Shall I go on?” 

“To be sure. It was only a dream, you know.” 

“Of course. Well as each Alice was brought, I shook my 
head disappointedly, and at last I said, ‘Bring the Alice that 
loves me.’ ‘Oh !’ exclaimed the angel, ‘Why didn’t you say so ?’ 
And in just a twinkling he had brought — well, you could never 
guess.” 

“No. Of course not. That’s always the interesting part of 
dreams and fairy tales. You can never guess the ending.” 

And then I told him about the dream I had had of him. — 
that nightmare after my visit to Coradell — and rebuked him for 
the way he loitered around without even so much as offering 
to help me pare a single peach, or construct a single cap and, 
laughing, we reached the entrance to the park. 


CHAPTER XVII 


UP A TREE 

“And there isn’t a buffalo in sight,” I said. 

“That tree is over this way. Isn’t it a perfect morning? Of 
the four seasons I like Autumn most.” 

“I, too,” I replied. “Have you noticed how exquisite the 
Autumnal tints are this year. The colorings are surely richer 
than usual, or, possibly the Iowa frosts are more artistic than 
other frosts.” 

“Surely they are early enough in beginning. I think I never 
before saw them dabbling in their paints so lavishly thus early 
in the season.” 

“I was especially enthused by the display north of Cedar 
Rapids. The hills and the hollows were gorgeous in their 
brillianc)'. There were dark backgrounds outlining a single 
crimson tree and there were banks of green and dashes of 
yellow. There were leaves with green centers bordered with 
red and those with the various shades all delicately blended 
together. I thought I had seen Autumnal glory before but I 
believe that scene deserved a medal for beauty of coloring and 
for a calculation to inspire its beholder with something too 
sublime for mere words to describe.” 

“You’re an enthusiast for the woods.” 

“I was reared in the beautiful Ozark country.” 

“The Ozark country. Let me think: Isn’t that where the 

137 


138 


A Romance of the Road 


people have horns and hoofs and moss-covered backs ? And don’t 
you always have to show them?” 

Now there was a time when I was sensitive on the subject of 
my Missouri. There was a time when the fun poked at Mis- 
souri was like a personal affront, and wherever I traveled I was 
constantly defending this state of my adoption till Uncle Zeb 
put me right. You want to know who Uncle Zeb is? He’s 
just a common old hillbilly, but he’s a born philosopher. It’s 
wonderful how Uncle Zeb can explain things. “Honey,” he 
said to me one day, “what’s the use o’ gettin’ riled up over 
nothin’? You don’t see old Missouri a-dyin’ of a broken heart, 
do you, jist because people poke fun at her? Why, bless your 
heart, Missouri don’t care. Did you ever see that big New 
Foundland dawg of Jep Medder’s? Jist notice some time and 
see how he goes along with his head up and his tail a-swayin’ 
in the breeze without even seein’ the little curs a-snappin’ at his 
heels. They may growl at him, and grin at him, and make fun 
of him all day long and he don’t pay no ’tention to ’em ; nary a 
grain. He jist minds his own business and gits bigger and fatter 
and shinier every day. That’s jist like Missouri. And as to us 
havin’ to be showed! You jist bet we do. That’s a part of 
the secret. No honey, Missouri don’t care; nary a grain.” 

So I told this traveler about Uncle Zeb and added: “Do you 
know that Missouri could be fenced off to itself, receive noth- 
ing whatsoever from the outside world and live upon its own 
bountiful resources? We have everything needful within our 
own confines.” 

The Other Traveler smiled. “I am just trying to remem- 
ber,” he said, “how many times I have heard people say that 
about their own particular pet states.” 

“And, as to natural scenery,” ignoring him, “I wouldn’t trade 
that of our Ozark hills for any in the whole wide world.” 


Up a Tree 


139 


“Gee! you are almost good looking when you talk like that. 
Say it again. I suppose when you cross over into that great 
Missouri of yours tomorrow, you’ll want to get right off and 
shake hands with it; and like as not the conductor won’t stop 
the train.” 

He looked like a big teasing boy. “If it were not for your 
size,” I said, “I would shake you.” 

“You might try it anyhow. I think I should like it. I 
heard a girl threaten to eat her brother when she was angry 
with him. Now I call that a threat worth while.” 

“Aren’t we getting rather frivolous for two middle-aged 
people?” 

“My dear little woman, at this age we just begin to learn 
to live. You know that yourself. One must be middle-aged 
before he knows what he really wants, and, like as not, it is 
then too late to get it, which is just one of life’s muddles. Here’s 
our tree. Shall we read at once or talk a while?” 

“Let’s talk or not talk just as we like.” 

“All right. But do you know what people say about a couple 
who can sit satisfied, just to be together without feeling it nec- 
essary to entertain each other?” 

“No.” 

“They say that two such persons have reached a state of 
perfect companionship.” 

“Then we must talk.” 

“Very well ; suppose we learn something of each other’s likes 
and dislikes. For instance, what do you see real often that 
offends?” 

I remembered something I had heard said just a day or two 
ago about a woman who had been brave enough to fill a most 
difficult position and I said ; “I don’t like to hear a step mother 


140 A Romance of the Road 

condemned without a hearing, merely because she is a step 
mother.” 

“You are not a step mother.” 

“No. But some other woman is. These short comings that 
are laid at the door of the woman who loves a man well enough 
to try to mother his children are often unjust. I know that 
there are many good step mothers.” 

“I am sure of it. What else?” 

“Well, there’s the mother-in-law joke. I am intensely weary 
of it. I am disgusted with it.” 

“You are not a mother-in-law, either.” 

“But I’m going to be.” 

“Well, isn’t it true that a man’s wife’s mother can be trouble- 
some at times?” 

“Listen: A woman is disposed to love the man, as her own 
son, when she gives to him her very best treasure, her own 
daughter. I have studied the subject as every mother does and 
I am very sure that there are two sides to the question, and 
that the one least heard about, and least sympathized with, is 
the one most worthy.” 

“Don’t grieve. It is only the very vulgar, now-a-days, who 
make merry at the expense of the mother-in-law. It is as cruel 
as it is senseless. Nobody sneers at the mother, yet every mother 
must face the possibility of becoming a mother-in-law — an office 
as sacred as the other and in many ways involving much more. 
I agree with you, so far. Like all good women you are loyal 
to your own sex and I honor you for it. Now what next?” 

“I wish to know by what right a man may take a girl from 
her home and those who love her most, and when she has given 
up everything for him and to him — what right has he, I ask, to 
ruin her life? Scarcely a day passes that I do not see, or hear, 
or know, of some woman who has been deserted by the father of 


Up a Tree 


141 


her little helpless children, who, becoming weary of life’s re- 
sponsibilities, leaves her, single-handed, in the struggle that is 
surely great enough for two. Yesterday I saw a little boy of 
ten selling pencils from door to door. He had big mournful eyes 
and a face that, young as it was, told of tragedy. I inquired 
about him and learned the story: Six months ago a tradesman 
grew tired of his work and the responsibility of his family. He 
couldn’t make a living for them without working too hard, he 
said, and, besides, he had discovered that he didn’t love his 
wife. Couldn’t make a living, indeed! How did he expect 
the mother to earn a living for the children if he couldn’t? But 
he didn’t care anything about that, of course. This is only 
one instance. I shall not soon forget the heartache in the face 
of that ten-year-old child, the eldest of the family of four, striv- 
ing to help his mother in her struggle to live and keep the little 
family together.” 

“Doesn’t a mother ever desert her children?” 

“You can count on your fingers, all the cases you ever heard 
of. You know that.” 

“Wasn’t the fact that the man had ceased to love his wife 
any excuse?” 

“Do you believe it was? You know you do not. Perhaps 
she had also ceased to love her husband. Did she desert her 
children because of it? Suppose the husband and wife each 
had ceased to love the other, or had discovered, after a few 
years, that they never had loved each other. Would that fur- 
nish an excuse for either to desert the little children, brought 
into the world through no fault of their own? I do not say 
that this man should have continued to pretend to love his wife ; 
that is not for me to decide. But I do say that he should at least 
help to care for the children and to keep them from want.” 


142 


A Romance of the Road 


“It is said that men are actuated only by sentiment where 
women are concerned ; never from principle or duty.” 

“Don’t tell me that it is true. I refuse to believe it. I re- 
fuse to lose the faith of my girlhood in men. I will not give up 
my ideals just yet. But there are some things I do not under- 
stand. Tell me about them. You are a man. Explain them to 
me.” 

“But I cannot. I only know that I am ashamed of man’s in- 
justice. He expects, nay, demands, everything of woman and 
gives so little in return. I have remained a bachelor, lest, as 
a husband, I be weighed in the balance and found wanting.” 

“But there are good men in the world — surely, there are a 
great many.” 

“Of course. There are many great, true-hearted gentlemen. 
Sometimes such a man marries a woman who doesn’t appreciate 
his real worth. The best woman frequently gets a scamp for a 
husband; and this is another of life’s muddles. But cheer up. 
You can’t reform the world all by yourself of course, but you 
can help. Don’t ever give up, but, at the same time, don’t let 
conditions break your heart. The world is growing better every 
day and it is better because of the good women and the good 
men that are a part of it. A little leaven, you know, may leaven 
the whole lump. It will.” 

His assurance was most comforting, and we drifted from one 
subject to another. “Shall I read to you?” he asked once. I 
nodded assent. He took a small volume of Holland’s Kathrina 
from his pocket. 

“What part of it?” 

“The prayer of Paul.” 

He was a good reader and his voice fell upon appreciative 
ears. And soon my heart was atune with the theme, and with 
the peace and the spirit of restfulness all about us. 


Up a Tree 


M3 


“Doesn’t it seem a pity,” I said after a time, “that Monday 
morning must convert the Sunday dreamer into a matter-of- 
fact hustler?” 

“Once,” he replied, “I saw a picture of an elephant that was 
being dressed down and hustled about after a Sunday of peanut 
eating. I more than half sympathized with the sentiment float- 
ing upward from his trunk, ‘Gee ! but I do hate Monday morn- 
ing!’ I shouldn’t worry about the week days, though, if every 
Sunday could be like this. Shall I read some more?” 

“Yes.” 

“What shall — Geewhillikins ! Look yonder! Can you climb? 
I’ll help you! Quick!” 

I looked. I saw. And I didn’t need any help. I was a 
long-legged girl again on the Ozark homestead, and just swung 
myself right up into the branches of that tree as I would have 
done ’steen years ago. The Other Traveler followed with 
equal nimbleness. 

The bull made short work of the newspaper left on the 
ground and then bellowed for more worlds to conquer. 

We looked at each other and down at the bull ; and I wasn’t 
sure whether I ought to laugh or be frightened. “Neither 
would be wholly original,” the Other Traveler told me, “but, 
after all,” he added, “none of the emotions are original; all are 
imitative.” 

“But,” I said, “we have no record as to how ladies have ever 
acted that were treed by ugly bulls, have we?” 

“Well, I don’t remember of having read about it in the old 
books of etiquette,” he replied. “Let’s see. It should sound 
something like this: ‘In case a lady is threatened by an angry 
animal, and she is near a tree she should look around her leis- 
urely and carefully, to observe what the onlookers were, — ’ ” 

“Nonsense!” I laughed. 


144 


A Romance of the Road 


“It usually is,” he replied. 

I looked down at the bull again and said, “He’s calling us 
names. My umbrella is on the bench. I’ll loan it to you if you 
will go down and break it over his burly head.” 

“Thank you. I never did believe in fighting a fellow be- 
neath me; and you must acknowledge that my present station 
is considerably above that of our enemy.” 

“Where’s the Irishman?” 

“Nowhere near, of course, when he’s needed. The puzzling 
thing is that this old codger should have a special spite at me. 
Evidently he is considered safe, else he wouldn’t be allowed to 
run at large in the park. Yet, this is the second time I’ve been 
treed by the old brute.” 

“He’ll get tired and go away after a while, won’t he?” 

“I suppose so. Gee! You did swing yourself up beautifully. 
A man likes that. It’s much prettier than to look round and 
deliberate or scream or faint, as did the Amandas of old. What 
in the world would I have done with you if you had fainted?” 

“I’m sure I did it awkwardly, it’s been so long,” I said, feel- 
ing sort of foolish. “You’re pretty active yourself.” 

“Athletics were a part of my education. For a two-hundred- 
pounder I think I can handle myself fairly well. But I am won- 
dering where you learned such agility? And, by the way, 
you’ve changed your mind haven’t you, about that other exped- 
ience of mine being a fish story?” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


ODD PLACE FOR REMINISCENCES 

It’s a shame to leave us in that tree while I start another 
chapter, though it wasn’t such a bad place to be after all — at 
least not at first. The comfort of its branches reminded me of a 
certain old apple tree in my Uncle Aaron’s orchard where I 
used to roost for hours at a time, together with the cousin a 
year younger than myself and of the same name, and, strangely 
enough, in spite of my present predicament and the general 
ludicrousness of the situation, my thoughts went back in swift 
review over a certain period of childhood and early youth. 

If that old apple tree listened to all that was said by cousin 
Alice and myself, I am sure that its wooden sides must have 
ached with many a suppressed giggle. At that early period 
neither cousin Alice nor myself were exactly satisfied with our 
old-fashioned name ; it had been in the family too long. Now, 
we would have preferred something like Angelica or Evalina. 
Nothing short of four syllables for us. Our favorite dream 
was, first, to grow up and be married. Then, we should have 
enough children to use up all the names we most favored. 
Occasionally we added another approved one to our lists and, 
at our last inventory, I remember that my future family would 
necessarily consist of fifteen girls and fourteen boys; cousin 
Alice’s a few more. Then we took up another subject. 

And I thought of another cousin, a black-haired, black-eyed 

145 


146 


A Romance of the Road 


boy, a close friend of my brother — the brother who was my 
playmate in those early days — and whose pleasure I shared in 
the visits of this black-eyed cousin. 

“He used to sit on the gate post and wait for us to discover 
him,” I 'said aloud. 

The Other Traveler, thinking only of the bull, looked at me 
inquiringly. 

“It was T. S. who sat on the gate post,” I explained. 

“T. S.,” he mused. “I don’t remember of ever having heard 
of T. S. Was it a bird of some sort? Or a breakfast food, 
maybe.” 

“A bird indeed!” the second supposition I ignored entirely. 
“T. S. was my little black-eyed boy cousin,” I said. “Now he’s 
my big black-eyed man-cousin. But we do not forget the old 
days. A recent letter from him, refers to me as the yellow- 
haired, long-legged girl who could run faster, jump farther and 
climb higher than the boys, and who led them in many a daring 
chase after imaginary Indians and ferocious wild animals when 
we were children down in the Ozarks.” 

“It’s a wonder it didn’t make you mannish, isn’t it?” 

“No. Why should it? The most mannish girl I ever knew 
was reared in a convent.” 

“Doesn’t environment count for anything?” 

“Of course. But the individual environed counts more. The 
Doctor, our office manager, you know, claims that it is every 
child’s right to be reared in the country or to at least spend 
a portion of the very impressionable years there, and I believe 
he’s right; he usually is.” 

“To hear your side of the story, one would think that office 
force down there in Chicago about ready to grow wings. 
Wouldn’t surprise me if you found Signe already flown away — 


Odd Place for Reminiscences 


H 7 


gone straight up to heaven, when you return. Why so ready 
to accept the Doctor’s theory?” 

Because of my own individual experience. Those years on 
the old Ozark homestead did more to shape my ideals for life 
than anything that ever came to me afterward. And they 
taught me resourcefulness and how to endure discomfort; for 
we were pioneer children in that part of the world and we 
didn’t light on feather beds every time we fell.” 

“Why did you call your cousin ‘T. S.’ ?” 

“Initials of his two names, — both given him in honor of 
great preachers. Neither could be ignored and to use the names 
in full was too much. He’s something of a preacher himself 
now and feels as I do about those early influences.” 

The bull pawed and bellowed and continued to call us names. 

“How different our early lives were.” 

“Tell me about yours.” 

“It’s not so interesting as your own. I was the only child of an 
English barrister. You were the eldest of a family of six. My 
earliest recollections are of a very secluded childhood, and I 
wore velvet frocks and long curls. I was petted and pampered, 
but saved from utter spoiling by a very sensible Aunt Mary. In 
my opinion, every man should have an Aunt Mary. It was at 
her home in the country that I was, perhaps, happiest, but no 
where did I learn what your childhood taught you, and the 
practical part of my make-up has never been very well de- 
veloped.” 

“A velvet frock! Why, do you know, the prospect of a new 
calico was enough to keep me in a state of excitement for 
days ; and among my earliest recollections are those of a pretty 
young mother who cut and made my frocks by hand, who gath- 
ered wild strawberries on the hillside for our dessert, and kept 
our rough plank home like a new pin, it was so clean and shiny; 


148 


A Romance of the Road 


and of a sturdy young father who cleared and tilled the ground 
and made what use he could of his Eastern education, by teach- 
ing our district school in the winter. How big and strong he 
was. He used to carry me on one arm, and in the other hand, 
a big pail of water, up the hill from the spring. And as to 
wrestling and jumping, none of the other settlers could come 
up to him. My pretty mother was never too busy to put on a 
clean collar and smooth her hair — such pretty hair with little 
curls at the back of her neck — when he was expected from the 
field — and to this day they have remained lovers.” 

“And you and I were miles and miles apart. Do you re- 
member the lines called ‘Fate’? Listen: 

‘Two shall be born the whole wide world apart 
And speak in different tongues and have no thought 
Each of the other’s being, and no heed. 

And these, o’er unknown lands and unknown seas, 

Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death, 

And all unconsciously shape every act 

And bend each wandering footstep toward this end — 

That some day out of darkness they shall meet 
And read life’s meaning in each other’s eyes/ ” 

“Isn’t this the oddest place in the world for reminiscences?” 

“Yes; but why change the subject?” 

“It’s safer. Let’s just drift a while with the tide.” 

The bull had gone away a few yards where he was quietly 
grazing. 

“He seems to have forgotten us,” said the Other Traveler. 
“But I’ve no confidence in him. I’ll dislodge this dead branch 
and see what he does — there!” 

The branch had not reached the ground before the old villain 
was charging upon it with lowered head and red, glaring eyes. 
His expression of disgust and disappointment, when he saw that 
it was only a branch from the tree, was comical. 


Odd Place for Reminiscences 


149 


“Now you see what he would do to us, don’t you? So let’s 
make ourselves comfortable and be happy. Let’s grow remin- 
iscent again.” 

“Do you know I’m putting the things that I do and say, 
and that others do and say, in my book? And do you suppose 
our conversation in this tree will ever interest anybody?” 

“It has interested us, hasn’t it? Now if you cannot write 
interestingly of the things that interest you, you may be sure 
that you will not write interestingly of the things that do not. 
Tell me some more about your early days on the Missouri home- 
stead. I like it.” 

“That’s only because it was so different from your own. 
Well, let me think. Now, there was the Wig family.” 

“Friends of yours?” 

“Very dear friends. They lived on a big rough rock right 
by the path that led to the old spring under the hill. Old Wig, 
himself, was the important member of the family, though I be- 
lieve that his wife and children came in for a small share of 
our attention. T. S. was well acquainted with old Wig, and I 
think my cousin Alice knew him, but none of the grown-ups had 
that privilege. Old Wig didn’t care much for the grown-ups.” 

“Is this a fairy story?” 

“A true one. You see my brother and I had very few play- 
mates and when days and days would pass without our seeing 
anyone except our parents and each other, we just created a 
few friends for a change. They were harmless enough, and 
very little trouble to entertain.” 

“You have told me about this brother who was your play- 
mate in childhood and about your favorite sister, both of whom 
are no longer with you. Now tell me about those who are 
still here.” 

'What for?” 


A Romance of the Road 


150 

“I want to know your family.” 

“Well, my one brother is the handsomest man alive.” 

“Of course. Brothers often are.” 

“Others say so, too.” 

“Of course; they always do — to your face.” 

“But he really is; and he has the sweetest wife. We love 
her as much as if she had been born into the family instead of 
having joined it after she was grown up.” 

“Which speaks well both for herself and for the family. Who 
next?” 

“Well, there is my sister Cecelia. Just one letter of her 
name saved her the possession of a sainted namesake — though 
she couldn’t be sweeter if she had a dozen — and my sister 
Geneva, the baby of the family, and said by some to be the 
beauty.” 

“That’s interesting. I should like to see these paragons.” 

“It wouldn’t do you any good. Both are happily married.” 

“Just my luck. I’d tear my hair if I could.” 

“Until I taught her better, my sister Geneva always ex- 
plained, when introducing me to her friends, — “My earliest 
recollection of my oldest sister is of seeing her an already grown- 
up young lady!” 

“Don’t blame you for teaching her better. Now, who else?” 

“No one else. And I wouldn’t tell you if there were. You 
have catechised me ever since we’ve been in this tree. If you 
want to know any more,” I looked round for inspiration and 
quoted : ‘Just read your answer in the stars.’ ” 

“You see,” he said laughing, “I’m like the man who, having 
no business of his own, attends to the business of his friends. 
Not having any people of my own, I wish to know about yours.” 

“Why?” 

“Curiosity, madam, — rank, mean, common, old curiosity. Of 


Odd Place for Reminiscences 151 

course it’s not because of regard for you, or interest in you, or 
anything of that sort, — just common, old curiosity. Why I 
have a deep and growing hankering right now, to know your 
brother’s name, just because you didn’t mention it.” 

“Just to satisfy you, I’ll tell you; but it’s a puzzle, and he 
originated it himself when he was about one-fourth his present 
size.” 

“Puzzles are always satisfying. It’s so pleasant to cudgel 
your brains for the answer and never find it. Go ahead.” 

“Well, the first letter is something you would not like to have 
me do. The second is the first letter in the alphabet. Third is 
a unit in measurement. Fourth is a favorite English drink. 
Fifth is the fifth letter of the alphabet as well as of the name, 
and the sixth is a letter not in favor with the Southerners.” 

“What have they against it?” 

“I don’t know. But they cut it at every opportunity.” 

“Now if I were in knee trousers I know I should figure out 
that name, in no time at all. I used to be something shockingly 
remarkable at such stunts. There is usually a prize offered for 
solving conundrums isn’t there? What am I to have if I solve 
this one?” 

“A clear conscience.” 

“Nonsense. I shall name my own tribute. If I solve it I 
shall—” 

“Well, what?” 

“I shall ask the owner of the name if he needs a staid, com- 
fortable, middle-aged brother-in-law. If he does, I’ll apply.” 

“He already has two of them — didn’t I tell you?” 

“Can’t have too much of a good thing.” 

That twinkle of amusement was behind his glasses again. 

“Haven’t you any people at all, really?” I asked presently. 

“None. I’m a very sad little orphan; and, as such, am es- 


152 


A Romance of the Road 


pecially commended to your care and keeping — at least it would 
seem so to a man up a tree.” 

“It’s very unfortunate to be a man up a tree,” I said. “Some- 
times you know he stays there, — treed, helplessly and hopelessly, 
all his life.” 

“But you don’t know me. When I want a thing and believe 
it right for me to have it, I never give up — and — the more I 
see you, the mofe I feel the need of something I’ve never had. 
May I tell you — some time?” 

In his eyes now there was an expression that I had not seen 
before and I was provoked with myself that I was not angry — I, 
in whom romance was dead — dead and buried with the past. 
I didn’t dare look at him again, but presently I asked lightly: 

“Do you really think I should put all this stuff in my story?” 

“Put it in, put it in. It’ll make rotten reading like as not, 
but maybe there won’t be any readers,” and his own manner 
was as light as my own. 

“Now see here, Mr. Other Traveler,' — ” 

“Don’t you know my name?” 

“Of course; but I began thinking of you as the Other 
Traveler, before I learned it.” 

“Well I suppose that will do — if you like it — until you can 
call me Hubert.” 

“Until — I can call you — ” I gasped. 

“Yes; I always thought Hubert rather a nice name myself, 
but of course if you don’t like it — ” 

I ignored the remark, and all it might or might not imply, 
“As I was going to say,” I continued, “I don’t mind having Mr. 
Wells or Mr. Chance say things about my book. I don’t even 
mind the smiles that pass between Lady Edith and Miss Fe- 
dora when it is mentioned. I am not in the least offended when 
Sammy and Madge speak disparagingly of it. But as Uncle 


Odd Place for Reminiscences 153 

Zeb says, it ‘riles’ me to hear you say things like that. I don’t 
like it one bit.” 

“If you don’t like it yourself, how do you expect the rest of 
us to even tolerate it?” 

“I know you are just teasing, but I don’t believe you ought 
to tease a stranger like that.” 

“Are we strangers?” 

“We’re going to be from now on.” 

“Gee whillikins! I wish I had stayed down there with the 
bull. I’ll cast myself headlong at his feet right now if you say 
so, and make of myself a living sacrifice, as a peace offering.” 

I laughed in spite of myself and met his out-stretched hand 
half way across the yawning gulf between us. “It would be 
awful to turn enemies at this critical period,” I said, “for like 
as not, we shall have to spend the remainder of our natural 
lives right here.” 

“We will play that we have reverted back to the tree-dwell- 
ing period. We’ll make weapons from the bones of our bellow- 
ing friend down there and I’ll teach you to hunt our enemies 
and forage for food.” 

“In the first place, how shall we possess ourselves of his 
bones?” 

“Oh, never mind that! Maybe he’ll donate them. If we 
stay here long enough, you know, there probably will come a 
time when he won’t need them, himself.” 

“As Sammy and Madge would say, ‘Which is better, to be 
foolishly happy, or happily foolish?’ Oh, here’s our deliverer 
and he’s bringing a board!” 

“I’m both. Why need you be so glad to see our deliverer ? I 
haven’t enjoyed myself so much for ages and I suppose it will be 
millenniums before I see you again. Isn’t life a queer thing? 
Parts of it are too hard to endure, and parts of it too good to 


154 


A Romance of the Road 


last — which is another of its muddles. But,” changing his tone, 
“Why won’t you answer? May I tell you — sometime?” 

His voice was trembling. 

“You scarcely know me,” I said. “Why, Mr. Montford, we 
aren’t even acquainted.” 

“Aren’t we?” His voice was steadier now, and he half smiled 
as he said, “I’m not sure, after all, but that I like the ‘Other 
Traveler’ better. ‘Mr. Montford’ is very formal.” 

“I agree with you.” 

“Then you wish to be formal?” 

For a moment I did not reply. 

Many times I have said, “When my children grow up and 
form other ties I, too, shall make other ties.” I have watched 
Lady Edith and the Doctor in the great happiness that has come 
to them after their first youth is gone, and I have seen and 
known others, many others, when the best in love came at life’s 
equator — just when the summit is reached, with the toilsome 
climb up hill all behind, and the downward slope not yet be- 
gun — and I have said, — “That is what I wish for,” and yet — 

“I loved my husband,” I said. 

“Of course you did, dear — don’t look at me like that! You 
are dear. Of course you loved your husband. I couldn’t care 
for you now did I not believe that.” 

“And I don’t believe in second marriages,” I said — the old idea 
of the old ideal asserting itself. “They’ve always seemed to me 
an affront — an insult to the memory of the first.” 

“I’ve heard the very young express themselves like that, often 
— very often — but seldom does one of mature years believe it. 
So perfectly wholesome are your other views, that I wonder how 
you can believe anything so morbid.” Presently he added : 

“There are countries, you know, where it is believed that a 
woman’s interest in life is gone forever, and that her life itself 


Odd Place for Reminiscences 155 

should end with that of her husband’s — and she is buried alive 
in his grave.” 

“I have never been willing,” I said, “to give my children a 
rival. I have never been willing to divide my love and attention. 
All — every thought, even, has been for them and them only, 
throughout these fifteen years.” 

“And I cannot censure you for that. It’s a serious thing to 
do as a rule — almost a fatally dangerous thing to do — to divide a 
mother’s interests, and your children have been most fortunate 
in your undivided consideration. But it is different now; they 
are no longer the little children they once were.” 

“So it’s you again is it?” said Paddy to the man in the tree. 
“Shure and it must be a spite against you that he has. Why, he’s 
that perlite wid iverbody, never noticin’ them at all and jist 
moindin’ his own business intoirely. Phwat’s the matther wid 
yez?” he said to the bull between each spank. “Phwat’s the mat- 
ther, annyhow, I say ? And a lady too ! Shame on yez ! 

“Yez can coom down, now,” he called to us. “He’ll not 
bother yez again.” 

We walked to the park gate in silence. We didn’t even laugh, 
now, over our unique predicament of an hour ago. We had as 
completely forgotten it for the time as if being treed by a buf- 
falo bull was an every day occurrence. 

Near the gate there were other benches and we stopped invol- 
untarily ; neither of us had spoken a syllable. And then : 

“I have been in battle,” he said, “where the bullets were sing- 
ing the tune of death. I have seen the leaden rain cutting down 
its human targets as a sickle cuts the wheat. I saw the chum of 
my boyhood thrust through with a bayonet, and at the same mo- 
ment, I saw another bayonet aimed for myself. Scores of times 
I believed my end had come — and never did I waste a moment 
in regretting. And since those years in India, still has fate, at 


A Romance of the Road 


156 

times, brought me face to face with the change we mostly dread, 
and never — not even once — have I cared a snap of my finger 
which way the tide turned. This doesn’t mean that I despise 
life — far from it — but I haven’t had any great incentive to live ; 
not till now. You’ll be lonely when your children leave you; 
let me comfort you.” 

“Somehow, I can’t believe you,” I said. “You have seen 
many, many women. There have been those, I know, whom you 
could have married.” 

“Possibly.” 

“And now that you have reached a period when you wish to 
marry, why should you choose me when there are those who are 
younger and — and — ” 

“Do you think this is merely from a sudden wish to marry? 
How mistaken you are. It is because you have come into my 
life, and I can’t go on without you ; — and only this is why I wish 
to give up my old mode of living. As to years — you are younger 
than I by several of them. I know what you mean — but you are 
wrong. It’s you I want and if those several years were yours 
instead of mine, I should want you just the same. I wouldn’t 
care a rap — just so you loved me.” 

And again I didn’t dare look at him — and I was angry with 
myself for listening. 

“We’ll grow old together dear,” he continued. “Why should 
I wish you younger — so much younger than myself that I should 
leave you at the top of the hill and find myself alone on the last 
slope? No. We’ll go down together. I want you right with 
me — close — so close that I can put out my hand and find yours 
in an answering clasp. And when the time comes — maybe the 
Great Father will allow us to pass over, still hand in hand — to- 
gether.” 

“I don’t wish to grow old,” I said. 


Odd Place for Reminiscences 157 

“The added years need not make us old, dear. We will never 
be old. The stars are not old. They will shine tonight with as 
bright a radiance as when the earth was in its infancy. The 
changing of the seasons are not reminders of the passing time, 
but are given us merely, that we may see and enjoy the range of 
nature’s beauty. Don’t you see how I love you? Why, good 
God, woman! I never cared for anybody before! And now 
you know what it is that I want — your love in return.” 

And again I remembered what the Doctor said about people 
who foolishly attempt to remain consistent to an old idea that 
should long ago have been outgrown and discarded, and yet I 
said in obedience to the ideal I had cherished at eighteen: “One 
can love only once.” 

He looked at me steadily for a moment, and then replied 
slowly : 

“Do you remember that first day I saw you? I brought you 
a fan, as you sat under the big live oak in the front yard of that 
little country hotel. You were making a brave fight. Pride and 
determination were written all over you. But you were tired 
and almost discouraged. And when you looked at me and I saw 
your eyes all misty with tears that you would have died rather 
than let fall — do you know what I longed right at that moment 
to do ? I wanted to kiss your eyes and your tired mouth — actu- 
ally I never felt like that before! And I wanted to shoulder 
your troubles right then and there and carry them for you. I 
thought I had suddenly taken leave of my senses — but I know 
now what it was. I loved you, and I’ve loved you ever since, 
only a thousand times more. I’ve simply got to tell you — this 
once — but you shan’t be annoyed by it again.” 

“We can be friends,” I said. 

“Yes; we can be friends — and comrades. As comrades we 
must be frank. I shall tell you how I am coming on with the 


A Romance of the Road 


158 

puzzle, and I may even talk of love. I may let you know occa- 
sionally that I have gone right on with my heart full of it for 
you — for we must be honest with each other. But it grieves you 
to have me ask for your love in return — or to talk of marriage — 
and I shall not offend again.” 

He wouldn’t ask me again ! 

Something seemed suddenly to clutch my throat. I was chok- 
ing. There was a mist before my eyes. ... I was brought 
back to myself by hearing him say: '“And as comrades we shall 
laugh together, poke fun at each other, and be generally non- 
sensical and foolish.” 

And we chatted gaily all the way back to the hotel, said good- 
bye in the presence of the porter — and he was gone. 


CHAPTER XIX 


BLESS JACK, TOO 

Little Rock, Oct. io. 

What perfectly delightful days are these and how satisfied I 
feel this morning. I wonder whether, after all, anything is 
quite so satisfying, as just to experience a full realization of work 
well done — unless it is being able to pay your bills; and one is 
the inevitable result of the other. 

The clerk handed me some letters when I came in at six 
o’clock last evening. Two of them are from the dear ones in 
Chicago and the third from the Other Traveler. This is his 
letter: 

“My dear little Woman: — I don’t know why I call you little, do 
you? Maybe it’s for the same senseless reason that the tailor and 
the seamstress speak of the ‘little’ frock made for the full-grown 
woman, which is no reason at all. It is just a fad; and I hate fads. 

“I remember something you said about ‘Autumnal glory/ etc., 
that day at Keokuk. You see, I am still in its midst. It has really 
gone to my head ; and one day when I was a little off, I wrote 
some lines on the subject. I’ll make them a part of this letter. 
Don’t read them carefully; just dip into them here and there, and 
maybe they’ll fool you into thinking them poetry. They almost 
made me believe it at first: 

“The garish light of Summer days has passed away, and Au- 
tumn-time with gayer tints is in full sway. The vernal life that 
painted green all nature’s face, to colors, now, of brighter sheen has 
given place. The distant hills are stained with blue in dreamy mist ; 
and all their brows are crimson, where the sun has kissed. An icy 

159 


i6o 


A Romance of the Road 


hand, in warm design, has tinged each leaf, in tints and colors, — 
somber, — gray, — beyond belief. 

“I was found in my room unconscious, after the effort. 

“Your letters, to me, you tell me, are largely copied extracts 
from your note book, in which you record the things of interest as 
you go. Now, see how much kinder I am to you : for the lines I am 
penning are written expressly for your own brown eyes— or are 
they blue? — But what’s the difference? Whether of brown or baby 
blue, eyes of passion or color true, ’tis hard to choose betwixt the 
two, so long as they belong to you. Come to think of it, I believe 
it’s my own that are brown. 

“Once, I read a book for children about a talking pony. Very 
often, this pony talked in rhyme. It was a habit with him. Now 
if you, too, have read the story, I know I shall remind you of that 
pony. But I shan’t regret it, provided I may find the same favor 
in your eyes, that this pony finds with the children who read of him. 

“I remember something else you said that day at Keokuk, (it 
was ages and ages ago) about drifting with the tide, and I pre- 
sume you are right about it. It is never safe to jump at conclu- 
sions. The thing to do is to just look wise and wait to see what 
happens, then look wiser and say ‘I told you so.’ 

“But had you thought about the surprises incident to floating 
down stream without propulsion? There may be rocks and bars of 
sand, which our vessel will strike ere it reaches land. But we’ll 
trust to luck who will keep our log. And we’ll trust to fate to 
escape the bog. 

“And now, I know I am disgraced, but I assure you, that I 
didn’t bring up the subject merely to use that rhyme, for the rhyme 
is new to me. It just wrote itself at the psychological moment and 
didn’t even ask my permission. It is often that way. What I 
really wished to say is that the name of my boat is Hope — and I’m 
working on the puzzle. 

“You say you do not particularly enjoy writing letters because 
it is so ‘one-sided;’ that you feel discouraged to attempt to say 
things to your friends on paper, when you so much prefer to talk 
to them; that most of the pleasure is gone, because you cannot see 
the answering smile nor hear the intonations of the familiar voice, 
in reply. 

“I know what you mean. For instance, if you think of something 
funny, it’s much more jolly to be able to say it to some one and 
hear him laugh, than to write it down in cold black and white, and 
then, like as not, discover that it is not funny at all. 

^ “You are hurt over something you have read recently, and you 


Bless Jack, Too 


161 


ask me if it is true, that my country despises American tourists and 
visitors, and tolerates them only for the money they leave behind 
them. 

“I will say this much : I do not blame you for feeling as you do. 
But I hope you will not censure me if I refuse to answer for all 
England. I am not competent to do so. You say that hospitable 
America, knowing that she has a country worth seeing^ and a peo- 
ple worth visiting, welcomes every traveler that comes to her shores, 
and that she is too busy and too charitable to stand aloof and thank 
God that she is not as other people are — and other countries. 

“My dear little woman, I more than half suspect that you are 
right, for my long residence in America has enabled me to see 
many things as I did not once see them. But let us not quarrel 
simply because we were born under different flags. I honor you 
for a loyal American and I honor myself for a loyal Englishman. 

“Your country is a great country, and a most hospitable one. 
Uncle Sam has a heart as big as his own lands, which he gives 
away (the lands I mean), all too generously, in my opinion, to the 
homeless ones seeking his shores. I say too generously, because, 
it seems to me, that the time is not far distant when he will have 
no home lands left to give to those whose rightful inheritance they 
are — his own native-born, home-grown citizens. This criticism, com- 
ing from a foreigner, is proof that the critic has no ax to grind. 

“Recently, I have come across some conditons of real democ- 
racy. Yesterday, I was in a village, where the hotel barber had 
married a daughter of the oldest and wealthiest family in the 
county. He belonged to one of the best families, himself, and his 
calling had not altered his social position. 

“In another place, the daughter of the wash-woman, is the belle 
of the town. With her own white hands, she irons the clothes 
washed by her mother and delivers them to her customers. The re- 
verses of fortune, which imposed this manual Jabor upon the widow 
and her daughter, did not drive away their friends, nor lower them 
in the social scale. 

“Such truly righteous conditions could not, probably, be found 
anywhere else on the globe, and for the third time, I rise to remark, 
that if I were not a loyal Johnny Bull, I should wish to be a native- 
born subject to Uncle Sam. And, now, if that isn’t enough to re- 
store, at least, one Briton to your good graces, just tell me what 
other humble pie I should eat. 

“My sense of dignity was sadly shocked to-day by audacious 
young America, the eldest hopeful of the landlord’s flock. He had 
seen a comic picture, advertising the exploits of a couple of young- 


A Romance of the Road 


1 6 2 


sters, who had painted the face of a burglar on the bald head of a 
sleeping relative, to the horror of the wife of this same relative, 
who, upon seeing the wrong face, turned in a police call. The 
youngster in question, presented himself at my door armed with a 
brush and a tube of paint, with a view to practicing on me. 

“And here’s another true story: Last Sunday I heard two tots 
talking over the Sunday school lesson and naming the Johns they 
had learned about. There were John the Baptist, John in the wil- 
derness, John the ‘lotus’ eater — and John Bull. I suspect you know 
what I did, or at least, will not be surprised to learn that I patted 
the wise little heads of these wise little Bible scholars and gave 
them each a box of candy. 

“And you have never been to Boston? Shocking! Still, if 
you’ll just keep quiet about it, it won’t be so noticeable, maybe. I 
know a woman living in Kansas City, who never talks five minutes 
to a stranger without saying, ‘I’m strictly an Easterner, born and 
raised (yes, she says ‘raised’) in Philadelphia.’ Except for the ex- 
planation, no one would ever suspect that she was different from 
other people. 

“This same woman always prefaces a comic story with ‘Now this 
is awfully funny/ which is kind, for then you always know that it 
is proper to laugh. 

“And now, I am going to close if I can. I am jealous of this 
letter, jealous because I cannot go in its stead. I wish I might put 
a stamp on myself, and a tag addressed to you, and be handed you 
to-morrow morning instead of the fat envelope you will receive. 
Would you pay the postage due? 

“It is ten o’clock. I must put out the cat, set out the milk 
bottles, lock the door, bolt the windows, wind the clock, look under 
the bed, put my hair in curl papers and turn in. 

“Believe me, fellow traveler, ever just the same; and without 
signing you will know the name.” 

I read the letter a second time, and those from Chicago a third 
time, and then they were kissed (those from Chicago, I mean) 
and put away for further perusal. Sammy’s was full of news 
of the office: Signe and Marie are working early and late for the 
credit of my, and their, department. Lucile’s new skirt is just 
a trifle longer than her first long one. Madge and Mark are 
getting along like a pair of turtle doves, and every day, Clara 


Bless Jack, Too 


163 

wears a rose looking suspiciously like a mate to the one in Mr. 
Brocki’s buttonhole. And so on. 

It was a beautiful, moonlight night and I stepped out onto the 
balcony to enjoy it. The whistle of a locomotive and the rumble 
of cars came from the distance. “Three long toots and a short 
one,” said a boy out in front. “That’s old forty-seven jest 
pullin’ out with a string 0’ box cars a mile long.” 

“Them pore ol’ engines shore to have to pull,” said a second 
boy. 

“Huh! they don’t keer. They like it. Forty-seven would a 
heap ruther pull them cars to Pine Bluff than to play baseball or 
go huntin’. Lem Wheeler, he’s the engineer; an’ he says ol’ 
forty-seven jest loves to pull, and that she unnerstan’s ever’ word 
he says. Betcher this dime-with-a-hole-in-it, I c’n beatcher to the 
corner an’ back.” 

Then I heard voices on the other side of the vine partition : 

“You fellows make me tired. Of course it’s time to go home. 
I didn’t invite you to stay all night, did I ? And if I had known 
you were not going to notify your wives, you would never have 
learned that I was here and sort of longed to see two certain old 
friends of the yesterdays. What would you think if these same 
wives remained out of evenings, or even one evening, without 
your having the faintest idea of their whereabouts?” 

“That’s different.” 

“How is it different? So much advice is given on the subject, 
‘How to keep a husband,’ that we men almost forget that some- 
thing could be said about ‘How to keep a wife.’ ” 

“If a woman has enough to eat and enough to wear, what 
more does she need ?” said the second voice again. 

“Now, that’s just the trouble. Too many of us think that. 
Let me tell you something: A little tenderness is one of the 
things most needful to keep a woman happy and youthful; and 


164 


A Romance of the Road 


the man who does not realize this is the loser. This does not 
mean that she must be constantly humored and coddled. No, in- 
deed! She’s a rational human being, the same as her husband. 
It just means that there is a need as great as the material food. 
And we men are exactly the same. A Jittle sympathy from the 
one woman in the world is the best tonic we can have when the 
world seems against us; and we are not above a little coddling, 
either. But the trouble is, we expect it all to come our way, and 
forget that a little expression of the regard we really feel for 
the woman we call wife, would save many a situation.” 

“Well, give my regards to yours, when you return,” said a 
third voice. “Jennie was a bright, sweet girl, and I reckon your 
treatment of her has kept her so. And I see you’re the same old 
chap of those yesterdays you mention. I remember you never 
failed to tell your mother where you were going of evenings, and 
what time you would be home, — and you kept your word.” 

“And you used to kiss your mother good-bye, sometimes,” said 
the second voice. “Most of us fellows thought it none of moth- 
er’s business where we s^ent our evenings, — and as to a good-bye 
kiss! Well,- — we thought you a regular mollycoddle!” 

“You remember that I didn’t care a rap what you thought, 
don’t you? If I were a girl, I should learn something of a fel- 
low’s home behavior before I married him. His treatment of 
his mother and sisters, is a pretty sure index as to how he is going 
to behave when he’s married. 

“By the way, I forgot to ask about that long, hungry-looking 
chap, that we used to snub because he washed dishes for his 
board and did janitor work to pay his tuition. Think I asked 
about all the others at dinner. Reckon I’m reminded of him 
right here because — well — you know his mother died while he 
was in school ; — almost floored him. — What became of him ?” 

“Oh, Skinny! Why, Skinny is the biggest lawyer in the 


Bless Jack, Too 


165 

county. Seems you ought to have heard of him, even in your 
part of the world. He’s one of the big guns in this whole state, 
I tell you! I remember Bob Long made just a little more sport 
of him and snubbed him just a little harder if possible, than any 
of the rest of us young fools, and yet, when the test came, he was 
the fellow to stand by Bob to the very last and to do everything 
in his power to save him — poor Bob!” 

“Poor Bob! Why he was anything but poor as I remember 
him — always plenty of money to spend, and a jolly, good fellow 
all round. Did his best to save him! — what are you talking 
about? Save him from what?” 

“Well, you have been a long way from home, surely, not to 
know from what ! — why , from the penitentiary !” 

Explanations followed. And then they smoked in expressive 
silence. Even the light of their cigars spoke volumes — volumes 
of memories — Bob and his light-hearted, care-free existence — 
Skinny and his hard, cramped life as a student — the changed 
positions — the strange freak of fate — or was it fate — 

“Sometimes,” said the second voice presently, “I’m inclined to 
think that it’s the fellow who makes his own way, and gets his 
education and his start in life by hard knocks, who most appre- 
ciates it.” 

“It isn’t possible to make a set, fast rule for it,” said the host. 
“So much depends upon the fellow himself, that there would be 
scores of exceptions. But it is, at least, safe to say, that the boy 
who desires the education or the start so much, that he is will- 
ing to take the hard knocks, rather than go without it, usually 
knows how to appreciate it when he does finally get it.” 

They smoked on in thoughtful silence. And then the visitors 
rose to go, and to express their appreciation of the evening’s en- 
tertainment. Their voices were low and full of subdued feeling. 


A Romance of the Road 


1 66 

“Goodbye, both of you,” said the host, quietly. “It’s like old 
times to see you boys again.” 

“Next time you are here, you must stay with us,” said the 
second voice. 

“All right. I shall be here rather often for the next few 
months.” 

Then they left him and I watched the glow of the single cigar 
through the vines with the keenest satisfaction. Without any 
fault of my own, I had heard the closing conversation of an 
evening, spent together by these old friends, and had heard them 
express themselves in the clean language of gentlemen, all un- 
biased and uninfluenced by the known presence of a woman. 
Once I heard a story of General U. S. Grant, that has, to me 
ever endeared his memory : 

“Seeing that there are no ladies present,” said a man of a party, 
which included the General, “I have a very new and a very racy 
story to tell you.” 

“But,” said the General quietly, “you must remember, sir, that 
there are gentlemen present.” 

So I watched the glow of the cigar and thought of many 
things. I hadn’t seen the face of the smoker. It wasn’t neces- 
sary to see his face to know what manner of man he was. You 
know a store keeper by his store or a farmer by his farm. His 
character is written all over it. And I knew the man smoking 
on the other side of the vines by his conversation. Out of the 
heart the mouth speaketh. It isn’t difficult to see why Jennie 
stays youthful and happy. 

Presently the glow of the cigar was gone and I suspected that 
he went in to write her before retiring. God bless him ! 

Then, on the other side of me, behind another screen of vines, 
were other voices. I began to wonder whether these screens and 
these conversations were a part of the regular entertainment af- 


Bless Jack , Too 


1 67 


forded by this hotel, and then I remembered that the only reason 
why there were no voices in my part of this very unique veran- 
dah, was because I was all alone, and a stranger — and straight- 
way, I began to feel sorry for myself, and to be lonely and home- 
sick. Presently, I had a headache — my corns hurt — I felt a 
twinge of neuralgia in my teeth, and — 

Isn’t it odd how many things are wrong with you, the moment 
you begin to feel sorry for yourself ? 

“But you can’t affo’d to,” said a man’s voice. 

“Now I should like to know by what right he feels called upon 
to tell me so,” I thought indignantly. 

“You are enti’ely too strong-minded,” said the voice again. 

“Would you kindly tell me what business it is of yours?” I 
mentally retorted — that is, I think it was only mental, though I 
wasn’t real sure a moment afterward, that I hadn’t said some- 
thing, right out. 

“You will fo’feit the chivalry of men, my deah, if you pe’sist 
in you’ cou’se.” 

The impertinent thing! 

“What yo’ husband can be thinking of is mo’ than I can un- 
de’stand.” 

This was too much ! — and then a woman’s laugh assured me. 
What a goose I was ! — and I hadn’t felt sorry, or replied to him 
aloud, after all! 

“Dear, old Daddy!” was the laughing reply. “Wake up. 
Forget that foolish old word ‘chivalry’ that does not, and never 
did, mean anything. It’s as empty as vacuity, and the joke of it 
is, we women have found it out. There was a time when it im- 
pressed us, but none of us wish to go back to those old, musty 
days. Jack has never attempted to put me on a pedestal. I 
should climb right down, if he did, and stand beside him, where 
I belong. And Jack knows, too, that the old pedestal idea is 


1 68 A Romance of the Road 

just the grimmest sort of a jest, — knows as well as I, that the 
men who have ever made the greatest ado over it, have made 
also, the biggest fight to hold women as chattels. What Jack 
wants is a chum ; a companion ; he makes me a sharer of his hopes 
and plans and work. He doesn’t want, and doesn’t need, a god- 
dess, with too little sense to understand and too little strength to 
help. He wants and needs the sympathy and companionship of a 
sensible woman — and, Daddy, you know the rest. We advise 
each other, comfort each other, love each other, and are happy — 
oh! so deliciously happy. You wouldn’t wish it otherwise; of 
course you wouldn’t.” 

They were joined at this moment by a man with just such a 
voice as I knew Jack must possess, and I said, “Bless Jack, too!” 

And all this in Little Rock! I had never imagined it to be 
the harborer of such decided thought and clear-cut ideas. In 
fact, I had never thought of Little Rock in any special way. 
About the only impression I had ever had of it, was the very 
vague one gathered, when we used to sing the “States and Capi- 
tals,” each twice repeated, to a tune which, I think, was in- 
vented by our teacher for the purpose, as I had never heard it 
before, and have not heard it since, — “Arkansas, Little Rock, 
on the Arkansas River — Arkansas, Little Rock, on the Ar- 
kansas River.” After singing this once a day for six months, 
I at least learned its location and the memory clings. And 
we pronounced Arkansas exactly as it is spelled ; nobody would 
think of doing that now. 

One of the things that disturbed me in those days of singing- 
geography, was the greediness of Rhode Island — two whole capi- 
tals all its own, and it no larger than my smallest thumb paper. 
Why, Missouri could swallow “Little Rhodie” at one gulp and 
never know she’d had a lunch ; and as to Texas — why, Texas 
would lose her in its hollow tooth. And two capitals ! 


Bless Jack , Too 


169 


The voices were gone now, and a clock striking somewhere in 
the distance, told me that it was time the sandman was making 
his rounds. 

I obeyed the hint, and was just drifting into a comfortable 
dream when an idea struck me, and I had to get up and make a 
note of it. I knew it would be gone before morning if I didn’t. 
I’ve lost many an idea that way. 

About the first thing I learned in my old Harvey’s grammar, 
was the statement, “A word is the sign of an idea.” How I 
pondered over that statement. I never was quite clear as to its 
meaning. And now, I don’t know any more about it than I did 
then — for why should mere humanity try to grab an idea and 
analyze it. Who can tell us, really, what an idea is or where it 
originates? I’m glad to see that the psychologists, these days, 
merely dodge the question, or are honest enough to say they don’t 
know. But you always know when you have got one. It just 
hits you all of a sudden, when you least expect it. You didn’t 
hear it, and you didn’t see it coming, but you know it’s there, 
and then you’ve got to meet it half way if you hold it. A mo- 
ment of neglect at the wrong time will send it skedaddling, and 
ten to one, you will never have another chance to even so much 
as sprinkle a grain of salt on its tail, for an idea is a shy little 
thing and seldom knocks at your door a second time. 

After I had made this one so welcome that it promised to 
tarry and had curled itself up to purr and snooze on the hearth 
rug, I found I wasn’t sleepy at all. 

I read again the letters from Chicago — and the other letter. 
And fell to thinking. How like the Other Traveler are his let- 
ters. He puts his own jolly, breezy self right into their every 
line. 

No one was looking. And when those from Chicago were 


170 A Romance of the Road 

held to my lips in a last good-night caress — the third one was not 
slighted. 

He will never know — and he is working on the puzzle ! 

The night was coaxing me again to come outside. My chair 
was still on the verandah, and the city was asleep and would 
never know; and anyhow it was a friendly little city and knew 
the charm of its soft balmy nights so well that it wouldn’t blame 
me. 

The moon had gone to bed, but it had left the stars to keep 
watch and to keep the earth from being lonely in the darkness. 
And I found myself gazing up at the mysterious twinkling orbs, 
remembering a time when I had done so half in fear and half in 
hope, that I should behold some strange and awful vision. 

How quiet and how comforting the night. Someone has lik- 
ened it to a great, loving mother, where we, her children, may 
come for comfort — a gentle, tender mother, who strokes the hot 
forehead and lays the flushed cheek against her bosom and 
soothes away the pain of the day. 

One’s loved ones are often very near at such a time ; and very 
often those who have passed on to that mysterious realm, from 
which we are told there is no return, seem nearer than those who 
are of earth, and did we but put out a hand, we would clasp 
another in a half-forgotten pressure of yesterday’s caresses. 

And then sleep comes almost unawares, and we awake next 
morning with new courage, and new hope. 


CHAPTER XX 


FLOWERS BORN TO BLUSH UNSEEN 

Fort Gibson, Oct. 14. 

I never did like to work on Saturday afternoon, anyhow, and, 
when the noon hour came to-day, I threw my sample case into 
a corner, put on a clean shirt waist, and deliberately planned to 
play “hooky.” 

And, anyhow, I was merely obeying orders. Mr. Wells said 
to me, as I was leaving, “Be happy, and don’t do anything I 
wouldn’t.” And this wasn’t anything Mr. Wells wouldn’t do. 
He would have been as helpless to resist as was I. 

A thing that is always surprising, in spite of the fact that it is 
always prevalent, is the indifference of the ordinary resident in 
historical surroundings. 

Why, the very air of Fort Gibson was teeming and seething 
with romance. I smelled it; breathed it; felt it. And the peo- 
ple went on in their ordinary, everyday manner. Farmers’ wag- 
ons were standing about, and farmers’ wives were exchanging 
produce for household necessities. The men stood round in 
groups, trading news and trading horses. A street merchant cried 
his wares on the corner. People were laughing and talking, buy- 
ing and selling. I was offended. And when I said as much to the 
landlady who joined me in the “parlor,” where I was just decid- 
ing that I shouldn’t wait for the noonday dinner, she told me, 
very plainly, that they couldn’t live on it, even if they had the 

171 


1 72 


A Romance of the Road 


time to “moon around” about the romance and the history of 
things. “Why,” said she, “you were doing the same thing as 
the rest of us all this forenoon. I saw you pass here twice, and 
there wasn’t any grass growing under your feet either time. I’d 
have known you were from Chicago, even if I hadn’t seen the 
register.” 

So I came out of my trance, and thought, maybe, after all, his- 
tories wouldn’t be so very filling, and perhaps I’d better eat. 

“Come and sit on the porch and watch the Saturday crowd 
while waiting,” said the landlady, “and I’ll tell you about the 
people as they pass. 

“Here comes Mattie Burnett. People say she’s engaged to the 
richest Indian in the country, and I reckon it’s so. And I’ve no 
comment to make, one way or the other. I reckon it’s Mattie’s 
business. 

“That man acting so friendly, and shaking hands with people 
that he didn’t used to so much as notice, is going to run for sher- 
iff next fall. 

“The man in the black coat is our new minister. He’s unmar- 
ried and good looking, and it’s surprising how interested the 
girls are, all of a sudden, in church work. But, bless their 
hearts! That’s all right. I remember how I was, myself, at 
their age,” and the landlady laughed heartily. 

“Oh here comes Uncle Zeke. Good morning, Uncle. How 
are ‘Elbut’ and ‘Hennery’ this morning? and how are you?” 

“Putty tol’ble, Missy, putty tol’ble. Jis’ got a li’l tech 0’ rhu- 
maticks dis mawnin’, jes’ li’l tech uv ’em. Elbut, he’s po’ful 
talky dis mawnin’, a pawin’ an’ a bellerin’ all er way to town. 
Feels his keepin’, Elbut does, ’n laks mighty well to hear de soun’ 
ob his own voice, Elbut does, but he’s po’ful nice feller ’n mighty 
sens’ble-like, Elbut is, ’n gen’ly knows wha’ he’s gwine when he 


Flozuers Born to Blush Unseen 


m 


sta’ts, Elbut does, — ’n Hennery, — well he’s finer ’n silk, Missy, 
Hennery is.” 

He patted and stroked the big red oxen as he talked, gave 
them each a “nubbin” and filled the trough with fresh water. 

“High-sounding names you have for your oxen, Uncle Zeke,” 
1 remarked. I saw he expected me to say something. 

“Yas’m, yas’m,” grinning appreciatively. “A feller from Chi- 
cager tol’ me ’bout dem names. ‘Uncle Zeke,’ he say ‘Uncle 
Zeke,’ — jes’ lak dat — ‘Elbut Hubbud ’n Hennery Wad Beecha 
is mighty fine names fer dem oxes,’ ’n I christened ’em right 
straight, — dis ’ere way — jes’ lak dat.” And Uncle Zeke twice 
lifted a big, black hand, full of water from the trough, and sol- 
emnly sprinkled and patted it on the big, red heads of his pets. 

“There’s the bell,” said the landlady. “Uncle Zeke,” to the 
old negro, “you just go round to the kitchen. We have pork and 
sweet potatoes to-day. Sally’ll wait on you.” 

“You seem to know everybody,” I said, as I followed her in, 
and then, I remembered, that just a few years is a long time in 
a small town, if one counts time by the people one learns to 
know. 

Then I thought of the romance and the history of the place 
and grew serious again. 

And I walked and rode all the afternoon, and returned to the 
hotel, full to overflowing of old Fort Gibson, as it was when 
lawless Indian territory was a land of danger, daring and un- 
certainty to the resident, and of mystery and awe to the out- 
sider. 

I heard various stories of the elopement of Bettie Taylor, the 
beautiful daughter of General Taylor, with Jeff Davis, of whom 
her father, they tell me, at that time, sternly disapproved. The 
young couple went all the way to Van Buren, Ark., to be mar- 
ried, and it is said that the General never reached the God-bless- 


174 A Romance of the Road 

you-my-children stage, until Jeff distinguished himself in the 
Mexican war. 

I saw the grave of the beautiful Tahlihina Rogers, the Chero- 
kee wife of General Sam Houston, who died in 1838, just when 
her husband is said to have been planning to return to see her, — 
not having been able to induce her to come to him, because of a 
fear that she would never be happy if she left her own people to 
dwell among the whites. In fancy, I could see the pathetic pic- 
ture of this young Indian wife, patiently awaiting the return of 
her hero-husband, who had left her six years before, to fight for 
the liberty of Texas, and, still waiting, died without seeing him 
again. 

I saw the tree which is said to mark the spot of Washington 
Irving’s tent, when, in 1832, he sojourned at Fort Gibson, while 
writing his “Tales of a Traveler.” 

I heard about Trueheart, the Indian maiden whose story, it is 
claimed, was responsible for the author’s mention of the Shawnee 
woman who visited and talked with his heroine when she had en- 
tered into “this wonderful land at the base of the Ozark Moun- 
tains,” for it was in 1848 that Longfellow visited Fort Gibson 
and the next year appeared his Evangeline . 

Trueheart, so the story goes, was the daughter of a Shawnee 
chief. She is said to have had the classic features that are some- 
times so startlingly produced by Indian ancestry, while her clear, 
dark skin and lustrous, black eyes were the same as of others of 
her tribe. At an early age she loved, and was loved by a Shaw- 
nee warrior, who, after the fashion of warriors, rode away to 
war and did not return. 

Trueheart watched and waited. She kept the camp fires burn- 
ing as a welcome to him if he should return at night and each 
morning, after the fashion of Indian maidens, she plaited her 
glossy hair and smiled at her reflection in the brook. And each 


Flowers Born to Blush Unseen 175 

morning she cheered herself with the thought that before an- 
other sun should set her lover would be with her. 

But the years passed and Trueheart grew less buoyant. The 
morning was no longer full of promise and the night was with- 
out hope. It was then that she began a long and fruitless search, 
wandering from tribe to tribe, asking this one and that one for 
tidings of her lost love. 

Everywhere she was treated kindly. The Cherokees especially 
made her welcome, and thus it came about that she spent much 
of her time among them. 

Finally the news came. It always does. Trueheart learned 
that her warrior had fallen in battle soon after leaving her years 
before, and now, indeed, she was bereft — for hope was dead. 

They tell how she sat all through the long days on the river 
bank, refusing to be comforted, and how, one night, she put out 
in a canoe, presumably to visit some friends on the other side, 
and how, in the middle of the stream, the canoe was overturned 
— and Trueheart, indeed, went to her friends on the other side. 

There are a few superstitious ones who declare that she can 
still be seen at times on the river’s bank and that her lover is 
ever with her, where, re-united, they visit the scenes made sadly 
sacred by love’s long waiting. 

When I finally returned to the hotel, my handkerchiefs looked 
as they often do after I have been to the theater. I always invite 
a liberal supply of them to accompany me when I attend theater, 
for I never know just how many heart-breaking experiences I am 
going to live through before the last curtain falls. 

Since thinking about it some more, I’m not going to throw 
stones at the people of Fort Gibson for living right in the heart 
of so much history and legendry and romance, without realizing 
or appreciating its full significance, for I am not so sure that my 
own four walls would endure if they threw the stones back. 


176 


A Romance of the Road 


For years I have, at intervals, taken a look at the great Lin- 
coln statue in Lincoln Park and have, for years, accepted its 
presence, in a way appreciative, and yet, in a way, as a matter of 
course. 

But recently I saw a gray-haired veteran bare his head before 
it, and draw the sleeve of his one arm across his tear-dimmed 
eyes. And I knew then, that all these years, I had looked with- 
out seeing and never before had understood. 

I found a visitor awaiting me at the Hotel Fort Gibson, upon 
my return. He was dressed like a backwoodsman and it was my 
opinion that I had never seen him before. He verified this opinion 
at once for the first thing he said was, “I hope you ain’t disap- 
pointed by not seeing some one you knowed, but I seed you a 
passin’ ’round today and heerd you wuz from Chicago an’ I says 
to Mandy ‘Now they ain’t no tellin’, hit might be’t she knows 
Myry.’ ” 

I started. But of course there could be other Myras in Chi- 
cago. 

“You see,” he continued, “it happened back where we come 
from. We ain’t lived in Oklyhomy long. Me ’n Mandy got 
dissatisfied back there and ’lowed we’d sell out ’n try it down 
here. We’re doin’ well, too, but I’d give half of my ranch to 
find Myry. Say, ain’t you seen her? She’s slim an’ sorter tall 
an’ her hair is reddish. I wuz a blunderin’ old fool to run to 
her with the news like I done, but it wuz because I wuz so all- 
fired mad to think he’d treat her that-a-way, — but do you know 
it wuzn’t him at all. It wuz another feller, his cousin, by the 
same name who lives in a neighborin’ town ’n ever sence I 
learned a month later, from the train conductor that a girl of 
Myry’s description started to Chicago about the time she dis- 
appeared, I’ve inquired of ever’body I’ve seed frum there, fer, 


Flowers Born to Blush Unseen 


1 77 


as Mandy says ’taint no tellin’ what might happen ‘of it’ ; so I 
jest keep askin’. My name’s Hallett, ma’am an’ — ” 

I’ve an idea Mr. Hallett was never more surprised in his life. 
I was getting more and more excited each moment and now I 
couldn’t wait for him to say another word. I clutched his arm 
and held it so tightly that he winced and began to look em- 
barrassed and somehow I managed to utter a few broken sen- 
tences. I don’t know what they were, nor how I managed to 
say them, for there was such a tightness in my throat that I 
could scarcely speak at all, but I really know I said something 
for Mr. Hallett’s eyes bulged like they would pop out. 

“Je-ru-sa-lum!” he said. “Wait till I run over to the store 
and git Mandy.” 

It was late in the evening when the Hallets left for home. 
There were exclamations, explanations and congratulations. 
They invited me to go out home with them and spend a week 
or two on their ranch, and were it not that I was pressed for 
time, I believe I would have gone. They seemed like old 
friends — so quickly had this object of common interest made 
us akin. 

“But why hasn’t Robert Willis made some effort himself to 
find her?” I asked. 

“Why ain’t he — but of course you don’t know. The truth 
is, we wuz afeerd he’d lose his mind. He rode over them hills 
and hollers day and night. I went with him ez much ez I 
could. The whole settlement j’ined in the hunt and we drug 
the river fer miles. 

“ ‘I can’t look no further, Mr. Hallett,’ he said one evenin’. 
‘I’ve arranged with the Swipe boys to keep up the search ’n 
I’ll deposit money in the bank, when I go home, fer the fu- 
neral expenses. They’ll find her some day — but I don’t feel’s if 
I could bear it — ’n I’m goin’ to Alaska with them prospectors.’ 


178 


A Romance of the Road 


“That wuz afore I went to St. Louis and got into conversa- 
tion with the conductor on the way. They ain’t never heerd 
from Robert sence he left, but jest as soon’s they do hear, we’ll 
git the news to him. I’ll write his folks right away. No! I’ll 
be gol-darned if I do. I never would do it justice. No sir! 
Mandy! we’ll start fer the old diggin’s tomorrow. It’ll be a 
heap more satisfactory to see his folks and tell ’em all about it. 
The steers brought a good price ’n we’ll jest spend a little of 
the money fer that trip.” 

And then we shook hands and they went away, and I am up 
in my room to write a long letter to Mrs. Watson which she 
will give to Myra. 

What a strange world it is. Sometimes it seems so big and 
endless and selfish — and then sometimes it seems so very small, 
just a tiny dooryard where, in the friendly throng, we most un- 
expectedly rub shoulders with the persons we least expect to 
see, and sometimes just the people we wish or need to see most. 

All the afternoon I was full of the romance of the past. I 
was convinced, somehow, that it completely overshadowed that 
of the present. I almost wished I could have lived, at least 
several decades, earlier. But I feel tonight that the romance 
didn’t all die with those past decades. 

There are some visitors at the hotel this evening. Among 
them are two bright, little tots of five. I can hear them down 
on the veranda boasting to each other about the things they 
can “ ’member,” and I smile as I call to mind the remarkable 
memory of a certain little girl I used to know very well indeed. 

I can see her now, as she sat on the front step with her arm 
about her brother, a look of great wonder in the blue depths 
of her big eyes. 

“Honey” — that was her pet name for her brother — “honey, I 
’member perfectly well when I went with mamma to help 





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Flowers Born to Blush Unseen 


*79 


s’lect you.” (Sammy did like to use “grownup” words.) 
“There were heaps and heaps of little, tiny babies and it was 
dreadfully difficult to decide. You were in the prettiest glass- 
covered case and you were kicking up your little pink feets and 
looked so cute that I begged mamma to take you, and she 
s’lected you right away. And, honey,” mysteriously, “I’ll tell 
you something else. I ’member when they s’lected me. Yes I 
do! And Oh! I was the sweetest little thing! And they 
• wanted me, Oh ! ever so bad, — and I wanted them ! and papa 
just took me right up in his arms and carried me right home 
with them. Yes! he did. And I’ve been his little girl ever 
since.” 

But even all this is overshadowed when one considers how 
wonderful a recollection is Madge’s. Her favorite theme, for 
years, was her mother’s wedding, which she plainly remembered, 
even to the smallest detail, and many a group of little girls have 
listened in open-mouthed wonder and envy while Madge dis- 
coursed upon the solemnity of the ceremony, — the music — the 
flowers — and the beauty of the bride. 

During the wee sma’ hours of tomorrow morning I shall 
leave this little spot with its history and romance. And I will 
find other little spots of history and romance, living their un- 
eventful lives and going their uneventful ways, undiscovered 
and unknown to the world at large. 

“Just like the flowers that are born to blush unseen,” the 
doctor will say when I tell him about them. 

Shreveport, Oct. 20. 

I am spending the night here — really a whole night. I won’t 
have to be called until seven tomorrow morning. It doesn’t 
often happen that way and I am just reveling in the delight of it. 

And something so very odd and unexpected happened this 


180 A Romance of the Road 

afternoon that I haven’t recovered even yet — and it was six 
hours ago! 

I was hurrying along in true commercial fashion, congratu- 
lating myself upon having done in one hour that which often 
requires twice or three times that number, when I realized that 
someone was walking beside me. I attempted to drop behind 
by walking more slowly and the steps beside me were at once 
more leisurely. I quickened my steps and the other steps were 
equally quickened. I knew now that it was intentional and » 
I held my head a little higher and utterly ignored the creature. 
“You old ’moon-fixer!” it squeaked. 

This was too much. A policeman was on the corner and — 

A hand closed over the one that carried my sample case and a 
voice was saying, “Tell your troubles to me. The policeman 
doesn’t care.” Before he had said two words I was facing him 
and trying to decide whether I was dreaming. 

“Why did you act like that?” I demanded sternly. 

“Pure cussedness, I suppose, deary. Now don’t look sur- 
prised. Deary is almost the same as dear — just one letter dif- 
ferent and I have plenty of ‘y’s.’ I saw you a block ahead of 
me and at the rate you were going I had to walk right over the 
heads of the people to catch you. Why, Jack the Giant Killer 
with his seven-league boots wasn’t in it!” 

“And after you had caught me why didn’t you act like a 
person decently grown up.” 

“Cussedness, I tell you! Gee! It was such fun! Haven’t 
enjoyed anything so much since I saw you swing yourself into 
that tree when the bull was after us.” 

“You’re poking fun at me!” 

“Sure thing! A man always pokes fun at some dear of a 
woman — I warned you that I would, you know, — and I said I 


Flowers Born to Blush Unseen 181 

might even tell you occasionally that my heart hasn’t suffered 
dislocation.” 

“How funny your voice was.” 

“I made that voice to order, right on the spot. Why you 
grew two inches right there and then.” 

“Have I — still — got them?” 

And he laughed and laughed. 

“No,” he said finally, “You’re back to the old length,” and 
then I laughed with him. 

“How good it is to see you,” he said. 

“But how did you happen — ” 

“Don’t ask me for I don’t know. Two days ago I wrote you 
from a point as many hundred miles farther north — and now I 
am here. I’ve just two more calls to make and will join you 
at six-thirty for dinner. My train leaves two hours later.” 

“And you didn’t have the least idea that I was he-re and — •” 

“Not the slightest. I knew that Shreveport was on your 
route, but I didn’t know when you would be here. It wasn’t 
premeditated, dear — but even if it had been — wouldn’t you have 
forgiven me?” 

“But I don’t—” 

“Don’t even try. Long ago I gave up trying to understand 
surprises and I’m not going to begin now. Twenty years a 
commercial traveler — and try to explain a thing like this? I 
guess not! It’s just an incident deary — just an incident along 
the way.” 

“I’ve never said you could call me that — and I don’t like 
the way you surprised me on the street — and I think I ought to 
tell you that I never wish to see you again.” 

“In our line of business, you know,” and his eyes were laugh- 
ing, “we don’t care a rap when people tell us that. Some of 
the best customers I have, told me that in the beginning. Now 


A Romance of the Road 


1 82 

don’t keep me talking here when some of these same customers 
are simply pining away for a sight of me; — see you at your 
hotel at six-thirty.” 

H is last words were borne back on the wings of the balmy 
Louisiana breezes — and in another moment he was a block 
away. 

And now he’s on his way to Memphis and his being here 
seems almost like a nice little dream — though the dinner was 
surely a reality for I know we had fried chicken and hot biscuits 
— and he was as happy over the surprise and the delight of our 
visit as a boy. He’s just like a big, overgrown school boy. And 
he’s all alone in the world. I’m just sure that he needs moth- 
ering. And here I catch my breath sharply. I remember when 
I once thought that about one other man. I’ve heard that when 
a woman feels that way toward a man it’s a sure sign she’s — 

No! I won’t say it! for I’m not. He’s jolly and pleasant to 
be with — but I’m not in love. We’re just good friends. That’s 
all. Yes, — I’m sure that’s all. And I do not wish it to be 
more. 

I remember something he said as we sat, treed, up in Keokuk. 
“When I want a thing,” he said, “and believe it right for me to 
have it, I never give up.” 

That is typical of his business. Twenty years a commercial 
traveler! No! he’ll never give up! And it is I who must take 
the initiative. I must refuse to see him again. And I must 
do it at once. I won’t dare hesitate — nor wait- — I must do it 
at once. 


CHAPTER XXI 


you’re homesick 

Blankville, Nov. i. 

Sometime, during the night, a great many queer things hap- 
pened. All the gates in Blankville balked on their jobs and 
betook themselves to woodsheds and tree-tops. All the board 
walks reached the point where forbearance ceases to be a virtue, 
and showed their resentment over being walked on, by leaning 
up against the fence in sections, and deriding the people as they 
tramped by in the mud. 

The landlord’s new buggy climbed to the cow-shed roof. To 
complete the joke, it removed its wheels and couldn’t come down 
again. It’s apologetic countenance, in the light of day, belied 
the maliciousness of its original intent. 

The minister, next door, found a problem for his solving, right 
under his reverend nose. His driving horse and the Jersey cow, 
each dissatisfied with its lot in life, had deliberately traded 
positions. Dobbin was eating hay in Jersey’s stall, while Jersey, 
in Dobbin’s harness, stood meekly at the gate. 

Once, during the night, I saw mysterious, grinning heads, 
moving about in the street. I couldn’t keep my eyes open long 
enough to look again, and in just a moment I was dreaming 
that all the leading Blankville citizens, had traded their heads 
for pumpkins. I was dwelling upon the strangeness of the 
deal, and wondering why the farmer had allowed himself to be 

183 


1 84 


A Romance of the Road 


so imposed upon, when, suddenly, my girl chums and myself 
were scattering wheat as we walked slowly round the old 
church at midnight, clinging to one another, just as we really 
did, and saying through chattering teeth, “I sow; — who reaps? 
I sow; — who reaps?” Then, not waiting for a reply, lest there 
might really be one, we fled in terror before completing the 
third time round, and broke the spell. 

What funny things we used to do when looking for Prince 
Charming. I had a friend whose cousin’s cousin saw him first, 
as she held a mirror over the well at sunrise on May-day. His 
face appeared down in the water, in the mirror’s reflection, as 
plain as anything, and when she met him, three months later, 
she recognized him at once, and they were married almost right 
away. 

Another girl friend knew of a young lady whom her aunt 
had heard about in her girlhood, who, upon seeing a blue bird 
for the first time one Spring, turned round three times, took 
off her shoe, and found a blonde curl right in the toe of it. And 
it wasn’t any time, scarcely, before she was married to a man 
with the nicest blonde hair, you ever saw. 

And there was the girl that our next door neighbor had heard 
about, who — but why more proofs? We knew perfectly well, 
that, some of these times, something mysteriously romantic was 
going to happen to us, too. All we needed to do was to just 
keep on the look-out for them, and wonders and signs and 
mysteries were sure to seek us out. 

And the reason for all that happened last night, was Hal- 
lowe’en. Even Blankville is alive to the influences of its magic 
and witchery, and I, its guest, ought to have been happier than 
the morning found me. I ungratefully awoke with a bad taste 
in my mouth. I was cross, and didn’t blame things in Blank- 
ville for acting up as they had done. 


You're Homesick 185 

I felt my pulse and looked at my tongue and decided that I 
was in a very bad way. 

I am calling the place Blankville for two reasons: First, 
because that isn’t its name. Second, because it looks like thirty 
cents to me, with the three erased. 

“The trouble with you, is, you’re just homesick,” said the 
landlady, after breakfast. “You scarcely ate a mouthful.” The 
landlady is also waitress. “You think you have a headache, but 
you haven’t. You’re just homesick, — the sickest sick in the 
whole world, — that’s all that ails you.” 

I thought the landlady looked a bit sickish herself, and was 
just cross enough to tell her so. Her face was flushed and she 
seemed nervous. She laughed and said: “Well, I am a little 
upset. Don’t say a word about it in Blankville, and I’ll tell 
you. I’d never hear the last of it if the boys got hold of it. 
They’ve boarded with me a long while — the boys have — and 
feel very much at home. Hallowe’en last year, was full of 
their pranks. They made a lot of dummies and put them 
around in the beds, scaring the girls half to death. I found one 
in my own bed, and every vacant room in the house, held some 
sort of a surprise. I watched them pretty close last evening, and 
they didn’t get in any of their funny work, to speak of, but 
this morning I had an errand to number fifteen. The door 
wasn’t locked and I walked in as big as you please. It was 
early, and not very light, but I saw right away, that the boys 
had put a dummy in the bed of number fifteen, in spite of me. 
‘I do wish they could behave theirselves,’ I grumbled. Then, 
with one hand, I snatched the mosquito net from the face of 
the dummy, while, with the other, I yanked off the covers and 
grabbed him by the leg.” 

“Well?” I said. 

“It was a real man,” she whispered. “Came in on the mid- 


1 86 


A Romance of the Road 


night train, ’n went to bed without me knowing it. Traveling 
men do that way sometimes. If there’s nobody around, they 
just find a vacant room and take possession. Any other time 
than Hallowe’en, I’d have known.” 

She left me, and I began thinking of myself again. At inter- 
vals, all day, I have thought of myself. Maybe the landlady 
was right. My symptoms really do sound home-sickish. I’ve 
been going lately, “like a house a-fire,” as they say in Podunk, 
trying to gain a few days on my route. I am cutting out every 
town I dare cut out, and hold my job. I am doing, today, the 
work I had expected to do to-morrow, or two days hence. I’m 
reminding myself of the fore-handed Williamses. The William- 
ses were great on getting ahead with their work. They kept 
catching up, and getting ahead of things, until, finally, they ate 
breakfast at seven o’clock in the evening, and the next morning 
they had their noonday dinner. The hired man did the morning 
milking at night, and the next morning he went through a 
similar performance for the following evening. And, once, as he 
came in late from the field, he claims that he met himself going 
out to plow the next morning. Since then, I’ve heard this story 
with variations to fit the occasion, a number of times, and I sort 
of have my doubts about its being original with the Williams 
hired man. But about the milking — well, I asked Mrs. Will- 
iams how the hired man discovered that the milking he did at 
night, was for the next morning, and the next morning for the 
following evening, since each performace was just like the other, 
and she just looked at me, in a pitying sort of way, and didn’t 
see fit to explain. So it must be true, about the milking. 

Once, Zeke Williams harnessed his team to drive to town, 
when his forehandedness revealed to him a vision of himself — 
saw himself as plain as anything — stuck in the mud hole, just 
beyond the creek, and he put the horses back in the barn. 


You're Homesick 


187 


“What’s the use of putting yourself in a place that you know, 
beforehand, you’ll have a dickens of a time to pull out of?” he 
argued. “It’s hard enough to get out of a tight place, when 
you blunder in by accident.” 

But Zeke usually got out. Once, I visited the district school, 
and, for my entertainment, Zeke called his crack reading class 
to the front bench. The front bench is always the recitation 
seat, out where Zeke teaches. 

“Now, what is this lesson about?” asked Zeke importantly, 
when the reading was finished. 

“The canons of the Colorado,” answered a chorus of voices. 
They pronounced it “cannon.” 

“Right. Now, who can tell us something of particular in- 
terest about it?” 

No answer. 

“What? Don’t know?” 

A hand went up: “Please, teacher, what is a cannon of the 
Colorado?” 

“Ahem! ahem! This lesson,” impressively, “is mostly de- 
scriptive of the country, I’ll admit. No doubt, you perceived 
this, yourselves, as you read. But I’ll tell you what it really 
means. You see, when the Spaniards were exploring America, 
they had a great many cannons with them. They never could 
tell when they might need them, you know, so they just hauled 
them right along, wherever they went. When they came to the 
Colorado river, it was night; and they drove right over the 
precipice. It was a great piece of destructive folly on their part, 
I’ll admit, but you see they didn’t know it was a precipice. The 
remains are still there, and if a fellow has the nerve to lie down 
and peek over the edge, he can see what is left of the old war 
implements, away down at the bottom of the precipitous chasm. 
You see, some of these lessons have their meaning purposely 


1 88 A Romance of the Road 

hidden so as to make us think. Ahem! Class excused.” And 
Zeke was out of his tight place. 

I never think of Zeke Williams, without, also, thinking of a 
story I have often heard him tell. In fact, it is the only story 
I ever did hear him tell, but he always tells it. If an ac- 
quaintance of Zeke’s mentions to another acquaintance that he 
has seen Zeke Williams, the other always asks: “Did he tell 
you about his burglar?” This is the way Zeke tells it: 

“One Friday morning, Dad and Mother went to town to do 
their Saturday trading, and I went to the river to take my 
Sunday bath, when all of a sudden I remembered that I left my 
month’s pay and my watch, right in plain sight on the dining 
room table, where I had been grading the pupils’ examination 
papers. I went home, I tell you, like a race horse. The front 
door was open, and I knew some one had been there. The 
hired girl was home on a visit and there wasn’t anyone at home 
to open it. A burglar! Of course! Mentally, I bade farewell 
to my watch and my month’s pay! — but what do you think? 
There they were’ safe and sound ! And as sure as you live, gen- 
tlemen and ladies, there was a twenty-dollar gold piece with 
them, and a note saying: ‘Poor devil! I used to be a country 
school teacher myself. Accept this small token of sympathy.’ ” 

Since beginning this chapter, I’ve “made” three towns, and 
it seems a long time since morning. I’ve scribbled at odd inter- 
vals, all day. Some of it was written while waiting for trains ; 
some of it, aboard trains. All of it, while using my sample case 
as a writing desk — and every word of it, except these closing 
lines, was written as I strove to forget how very ill I was. 

As the day advanced, I felt symptoms of just about every 
disease I had ever heard of. Finally, I decided I had walking 


Y oil re Homesick 189 

typhoid. Anyhow, I had walked enough, and typhoid sounded 
about as bad as anything. 

This chapter reminds me of Silas Jugg down at Juggtown. 
Please bear in mind that these names are not fictitious; but I 
don’t think Silas will ever read this, and the town won’t care. 

Silas was in love. Desperately in love. Every Sunday morn- 
ing, he oiled his boots and his hair from the same quart can, 
saddled his “hoss” and rode twelve miles to see the girl of his 
dreams, — spent the day hanging round with her brothers, — and 
every Sunday evening, rode wearily home without having even 
spoken to her. 

Finally, seeing how it was, the family contrived to leave the 
two together, upon one of these visits. When Silas found him- 
self alone with the object of his heart’s desire, he was fright- 
ened out of his wits. After a half hour of looking down at his 
boots and wriggling around in his chair, he cleared his throat: 

Her heart beat a little faster. The time had come. 

“Miss Maggie,” he began. Miss Maggie smiled encourage- 
ment. “Miss Maggie, — do you know of anybody — that — wants 
— to buy a shirt ?” 

Surprised, but not discouraged, Miss Maggie replied, still 
sweetly smiling: “No, Mr. Jugg, I don’t. Have you got a 
shirt to sell ?” 

“No-o,” drawled poor Silas, “I ain’t. I jist said it to make 
talk.” 

So, I think I was a good deal like Silas, as I worked on 
Chapter twenty-one today. “I jist said it to make talk,” and to 
help me forget, — for Oh ! I was so ill ! 

Was? 

Yes. It must be written in the past tense. There was a 
letter awaiting me at the third town. It was from Mr. Wells. 
It told me that I could come on home from there, if I wished. 


190 A Romance of the Road 

The work in the office was heavier every day, and all the force 
was needed. 

Did I wish? 

Well, this chapter is being finished by the dim light of a 
Pullman, bound for Chicago. And I am making an actual 
calculation of the hours, minutes and seconds, until I shall be 
with my babies. It doesn’t make any difference how grown-up 
they may be, a mother’s children are always her babies ; and she 
is always perfectly sure that they need her. 

And what do you think! There isn’t an ache or a pain any- 
where. The moment they found themselves unpampered, un- 
noticed and forgotten, they just turned tail, and galloped off to 
where they belong, and from whence they came — into the land 
of nothingness. 


CHAPTER XXII 


THE MYSTERY 

“There’s nothing permanent but change.” 

The man who said that didn’t exaggerate. 

Sammy had written me that some changes had taken place, 
but she did not particularize, and I hadn’t thought of it again 
until I went to the office this morning. 

Olive is gone. Helen has vanished. Helen M. has migrated. 
Alice H. has vamoosed and Marie has left us. 

Not one of them really did anything different from the 
others ; but once I had a teacher whose hobby it was to drill us 
in the art of expressing a thought in various forms, each form 
having exactly the same meaning as the others. A box of 
candy was usually awarded the pupil who excelled in the contest. 
And sometimes, even now, I find myself working for that box of 
chocolate drops. 

I shall miss my jolly little Marie; but I have Olive F. to fill 
the gap and Rose to help out. 

Signe — no, Signe isn’t gone. She never is. The streets may 
be impassible; the cars may embrace in a mile-long deadlock. 
The weather man may be putting in his very worst licks. But 
Signe is always right on the dot, and no fooling. Once she was 
ten minutes late and I was on the verge of turning in a fire 
alarm and calling out the police when she arrived. 

Rose, Ruth and Laura were added to our force during my 
191 


192 


A Romance of the Road 


absence. “And you better watch out, now that Mrs. Von Meyer 
has returned,” I heard Olive F. say to them, “for if you’re 
bad shell put you in the book; and if you’re good she’ll put 
you in the book.” 

“Once,” said Signe, “I was at a show where the funny man 
told us that if he didn’t make us laugh he would get fired, and 
that if he did make us laugh he would be discharged. That’s 
the way it is here these days since Mrs. Von Meyer is writing 
a book. We never know just when we’re safe.” 

And so Ruth and Rose and Laura are not just sure of them- 
selves. They would like to be in my good graces, but are afraid 
to be — and yet they’re afraid not to be. “It’s sort of awful, 
isn’t it,” they said, “to feel that things are being said about 
you, actually put down in black and white and that you won’t 
know what, till you see them in print?” 

Lady Edith, in spite of the loss of Helen and Olive, is as 
motherly and buff-chochiny as ever and clucks just as atten- 
tively to the chicks that are left as when her brood was com- 
plete. And pretty soon I, too, will become accustomed to the 
change. 

I don’t blame Marie for going. I would go, too, if I had a 
lovely trip and a long vacation ahead of me, and had no cares, 
and wasn’t writing a book. And I don’t love Marie any less 
when I say that very soon I shall become accustomed to the 
change. It is just in the nature of things. It is my story that 
is going to most miss Marie and Helen and Olive and Alice H. 
and Helen M., for, without their presence to inspire me, I know 
that I shall not be able to get them into the chapters that are to 
follow. So, it’s the book that’s going to suffer most for their 
going, — and the book can’t speak up for itself, or utter a single 
protest; which is just another proof, that often the greatest 
sufferer makes the least fuss about it. 


The Mystery 


193 


Isn’t it the strangest thing that the world can go right on 
without us? Maybe that’s why people call it a “vain” world 
and an “ungrateful” world. 

Well, our office is a little world within itself — and I know 
that if I were to drop out tomorrow it wouldn’t make a ripple 
three inches deep. As Gertrude said to the girl who threatened 
to quit, — if I wish to know just how important I am and how 
necessary to the business, just let me put my finger in a pail of 
water, draw it out, and look for the hole it made. 

All the girls have their new fall hats on display and the 
cloak room looks like a milliner’s shop. There are big hats, 
little hats and hats that are neither. They are red, they are 
green, they are purple. What rank anarchists the girlies are this 
Fall. Actually, they have selected hats with a view to becom- 
ingness, without tying themselves to any certain styles or fads, 
and some of them, I can recognize in their individuality as 
surely as if tagged with the name of the owner in plain print: 

Here is a fluffy-ruffles affair that anybody would know is 
Esther’s. Here is just a “betwixt and between” one that must 
be Velma’s. Here’s another red one ; Lucile has a weakness for 
red hats. These very large ones, belong, I am sure, to Vera, 
Analice, Hannah and Lena, — for the smaller the girl, the big- 
ger her hat. Here’s a trim beaver that must be Avery’s, and 
— but there are so many of them! and already I’ve devoted 
almost two hundred words to our head gear. After such ex- 
travagance, I cannot even tell about my own. I can’t describe 
Miss Fedora’s — typical of its pretty wearer — nor even make 
honorable mention of Lady Edith’s. But here is one that I 
must note: It is plain. It is prim. It is individual. It has a 
rubber to wear under the chin; it couldn’t belong to anybody 
but Smithie. “And have you heard about Smithie,” whispered 


194 


A Romance of the Road 


Edna. “No? Well, it looks as if the rest of us have no longer 
even the ghost of a chance.” 

“A chance for what,” I asked. 

“For a week or more she has worn a rose every day,” sighed 
Clara. “It’s about Mr. Brocki, you know.” 

Clara was wearing the roses when I left. 

“Even Madge has given up,” said Edna. 

“The suspense is something awful,” declared Avery. “An 
untamed bachelor right in our midst! It’s the uncertainty of it 
that’s so maddening. I’m willing to give my interest in him to 
any girl who can land him just for the comfort of having it 
settled. Why, even Ragna and Golda had grown sentimental 
on the subject.” 

The roses in Smithie’s cheeks deepened just a little. She was 
in high good humor today and her eyes were shining as they 
always do at such times and her hair was curling round her fore- 
head most prettily. 

“But what do you think, Mrs. Von Meyer?” asked Ruby. 

“Yes! What do you think?” asked Alice. 

“Yes, indeed! What do you think?” demanded Vera. 

“Gooses! What business is it of ours what Mrs. Von Meyer 
thinks?” said Agnes. “Just tell her and be done with it.” 

Lola: “We have a mystery!” 

Olive F.: “Right under our noses.” 

Lola: “Olive F’s. location of that mystery is most unsatis- 
factory, seeing, as we must per force see, how very skyward is 
that nose of hers. What she means is that the mystery is right 
in our midst.” 

Hannah: “Yes; that’s what she means. And we discovered 
it all for your book, Mrs. Von Meyer because we just couldn’t 
bear to not have a mystery of some sort in it.” 

Anna D. : “I really meant to do something out of the ordi- 


The Mystery 195 

nary myself, but I couldn’t think of a single thing that was 
tragic or mysterious.” 

Signe: “Imagine Anna D. in tragedy.” 

Avery: “The trouble is our affairs run too smoothly. There 
isn’t a broken heart among us.” 

I looked round at the happy girlish faces and knew that 
this was true. I thought of Myra up on the fourth floor and 
knew that the statement held in her case, too, since my interview 
with Mr. Hallett down in Fort Gibson. I thought of the Doc- 
tor and Lady Edith; they are disgracefully happy. 

I even thought of myself and immediately pronounced my 
own case convalescent — in fact, out of danger. It had been 
only a mild type of the malady anyhow, and the radical measures 
recently inaugurated had not only checked its progress but had 
effectually strangled the germs; and nothing now was in the 
way of complete recovery; in fact, I was recovered. And I 
drew a deep self-satisfied sigh of relief that I had kept myself 
so well in hand. 

Speaking of Myra — I saw her a few moments this morning. 
There is a light of hope and expectancy in her eyes that is, in 
its intensity, almost as pathetic as the old expression of hopeless- 
ness. She began to say something, hesitated, choked, and whis- 
pered, “I’ll write it.” What an odd little thing she is with 
her queer little way of saying things on paper, and — 

I was brought back to my surroundings by hearing Lola say 
most decisively and scornfully, “We’re a bum lot, that’s what 
we are! I wouldn’t give two cents for the whole bunch of us!” 

Analice: “But the Prince helps some, doesn’t he?” 

“The Prince?” I didn’t understand. 

Golda: “Yes, haven’t you seen him?” 

Velma: “Haven’t you noticed the stranger?” 


196 A Romance of the Road 

“No one except the tall young lady in the little office,” I 
replied. 

Lola: (Tragically) “The very same !” 

“But the Prince?” 

Esther: “The strange young lady is the Prince, don’t you 
see?” 

I didn’t. 

Laura: “Some times I think we may be mistaken, but it 
really does seem mysterious. I’m most ashamed to put on 
powder when he’s watching.” 

Golda: “I believe he’s a girl myself and to prove it I’m 
going to put my arm around him — just as I would to Ragna.” 

Miss. G.: “You don’t imagine she’d object to that, do you? 
— just because she’s a man?” 

Vera: “Miss G. is authority on that part of the subject.” 

'Miss H.: “Like as not, he’s a girl anyhow.” 

Ruth: “No; she’s a man. I’m positive. She never gets his 
hat on straight.” 

Laura: “How very explicit we are. You see,” (turning to 
me), “it’s this way: We read about a Prince, a young fellow 
who had come to America in disguise. He was banished from 
his own country for some sort of a queer foreign reason. Every- 
body was looking for him and about that time this strange young 
woman came to work here. She wears thick blue glasses and 
keeps very much to himself and so — ” 

Lola: “And remember, Mrs. Von Meyer, we’ve done it all 
for the sake of your book. Isn’t it thrilling?” 

“Very! Only,” I said, “I haven’t seen the thrills; still if you 
say they’re there, — ” 

Lola: “Hist ! and I’ll confess! Tonight when the wind is 
howling like a sainted soul in purgatory — ” 

Miss H. : “Lost soul is more orthodox.” 


The Mystery 197 

Lola: “ — and the cold gray waves of Lake Michigan are 
singing a funeral ditty — ” 

Golda: “Dirge, would be better. ,, 

Lola: “ — I will creep stealthily out, with nothing but my 
trusty rifle between me and d-d-death! Ah-h! A-ha! I have 
reached the bleak d-d-desert! Wolves are prowling in the 
underbrush. Fiery eyes are glaring at me from every feathery 
tree-top, — ” 

Agnes: “Wrong word! Besides, it’s a desert.” 

Lola: “Clawing paws are reaching down to clutch me, as I 
pass dauntlessly on — on — down the avenue, — while the forest 
all about me, in the glad sunlight, moans the whole night 
through, with the pain of its anguished secrets. Only for the 
lights of the avenue, — ” 

Edna: (weakly) “What avenue?” 

Lola: “State street, if you must know. Don’t interrupt — 
my heart would fail me in my lonely vigil, as I crouch listening 
and listening, never wavering for a moment in my onward ramb- 
lings by the babbling brook, where the sea gulls chant a fond 
goodbye, as we speed across the lake with our sails floating 
merrily out to the — ” 

Girls: (Faintly) “Water ! water ! Oh-h-h!” 

Lola: “And tomorrow, when I have discovered all, I’ll lead 
thee to some sequestered nook, and whisper it all in my saddest 
strain, — ” 

Girls: (Faintly moaning) “Oh-h-h! Help!” 

I’m putting it all down just as she said it — and I’m very sure 
that the thrills are there, somewhere. It isn’t Lola’s fault that 
I can’t see them. 


CHAPTER XXIII 


NAMING THE BABY 

Ruby: ‘‘Ladies, and gentlemen: Our first duty this noon, is 
to give the baby a name; — in other words, to name the book.” 

Gertrude: “What book?” 

Agnes: “The book. Accent on the first word.” 

Sammy: “It isn’t a book, yet.” 

Ruby: “You old Missourian! I suppose we shall have to 
lay a bound copy of it in your hand, before you’ll believe it. 
Besides, this is a special meeting, and you weren’t invited.” 

Madge: “Why need it have a name, at all?” 

Ruby: “Not have a name! But that reminds me: Neither 
were you invited.” 

Vera: “Let’s give it something flowery, like ‘The Will-o’- 
the-Wisp and the Butterfly,’ or ‘The Light that, — ’ ” 

Gertrude: “No; make it daring. Call it ‘The Adventures 
of Someone-or-other.’ ” 

Edna: “Yes. Make it thrilling, in name, at least.” 

Bess: “Put her out. It’s a great honor, ladies and gentle- 
* men, — ” 

Lola: “Are you girls seeing double? Show me the gentle- 
men, please.” 

Bess: “ — to be called upon to give the baby a name. Let’s 
show our appreciation by being decent about it.” 

198 


Naming the Baby 


199 


Lucile: “Call it ‘The Young Girl in the great cruel World 
of Business, — and — and — 5 ” 

AnnaD.: “Rats!” 

Miss G. : “Call it ‘The Experiences of the Newly-weds.’ ” 

Bess: “Our newly-weds are all right, but — ” 

Olive F. : “Thinks she’s smart, Miss G. does, ’cause she’s 
married. I wouldn’t — ” 

Ruth: “Sour grapes! Now, ladies and gentlemen, I’ve a 
suggestion that’s worth while: Let’s name the book for Naomi’s 
daughter-in-law.” 

Rose: “Or, ‘The Last Rose of Summer,’ or ‘Ring Around 
the Rosy.” 

Laura: “Or, ‘Anna Laura.’ ” 

Vera: “Pronunciation incorrect and spelling out of gear. 
Besides, it isn’t to have any namesakes. ’Twouldn’t be fair to 
the rest of us.” 

Analice: (Dreamily) “Call it ‘The Skipper that Sailed 
o’er the Spanish Seas.’ ” 

Laura: “Quit looking at the lake; it’s bad for you.” 

Anna D. : “I have it! We’ll call it ‘Bilious Bub, the Rocky 
Mountain Terror.’ ” 

Golda: “Put her out! Call it ‘The Golden Dreams of — 
of—’ ” 

Ragna: “Dreams nothing! Call it — ask Signe. She has 
read more of it than any of us.” 

Clara: “The trouble is, none of us know anything about it. 
I haven’t heard three words of it.” 

Signe: “Just as Vera says, we can’t name it for any one 
character without being partial to some one. And I don’t know 
how we’re going to name it for any one incident because it’s a 
string of incidents all the way through — a string of things that 
happened after Mrs. Von Meyer began the book.” 


200 


A Romance of the Road 


Ragna: “Still, it must have a name.” 

Lola: “Yes; it must have a name. But shall we extend to 
Signe the very great honor of deciding it all by her little lone 
self? If it shouldn’t come out right, we will feel responsible.” 

Clara: “No; we’ll make Signe responsible.” 

Rose: “Since Signe is the only one who knows the story, I 
don’t see how we can have any choice in the matter.” 

Laura: “It seems to me that there’s enough love in it to 
entitle it to a name suggestive of romance.” 

Lola: (Sighing pensively) “Yes; make it romantic.” 

Signe: “Everybody’s in love. The story is full of it from 
beginning to end. And the principal romance, — well, it’s so — - 
so — ” 

Rose: “Bewitching?” 

Anna D. : “Befuddling?” 

Analice: “Unique?” 

Signe: “That’s it — unique. It’s the Romance unique. It 
couldn’t have happened exactly the same anywhere else nor 
under any other conditions. It’s purely A ROMANCE OF 
THE ROAD. And that’s my suggestion.” 

Lola: “A romance of the road. I believe that would be 
a pretty fair sort of a romance. I’m going to ask Mr. Wells 
to send me out traveling.” 

Ruby: “And it strikes me as being a pretty fair sort of a 
title. And unless some of you can think of something better, 
I’m in favor of adopting it.” 

Anna D. : “Seems to me we aren’t making enough ‘ado’ 
over it. We ought to stay up all night, make speeches, serve 
coffee at twelve o’clock, and, finally, just as the first rosy streaks 
of dawn are streaming through the — the — well you know what 
I mean! Why, when they christened me, — ” 

Clara: “But just think who you were!” 


Naming the Baby 201 

Laura: “If we can do a thing in five minutes, why make an 
all-night job of it?” 

“ ’Tis the way of the world these days to hurry with unseem- 
ing haste,” and Anna D. shook her head and sighed dolefully. 

Ruby: (Laughing) “Well, — shall we adopt it? Are we 
all satisfied? — hands up! — it seems that we are — and so, — we 
will consider the book formally and most solemnly christened — 
A ROMANCE OF THE ROAD.” 

“And it’s twelve forty-five,” said Clara. “Goodbye.” 

“Did you hear about Lola’s obsession?” asked Jonesie. 

“No. Is it something to eat?” asked one. 

“Something to wear?” asked another. 

“It’s a new plan for getting rid of Johnny,” Jonesie ex- 
plained. “You see, Henry objects to the flirtation and she dotes 
on Henry.” 

It lacked, still, a quarter to one, and Lola stood talking to 
Johnny in the hall. Her eyes were turned piously upward, as 
she replied solemnly to something he had said: 

“Mary-had-a-little-lamb ; its fleece- was- white-as-cotton, ’n- 
everywhere-that-Mary-went-the-lamb-it-w-ent-a-trottin’ !” 

“But, Lola!” and Johnny’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. 

And Lola sadly chanted, “Tom-Tom-the-piper’s-son-stole-a- 
pig-’n-away-he-run,-the-pig-got-loose-and-bit-a-goose-’n-Tom-got 
-put, — ” 

“But, Lola! Surely you are just fooling. You aren’t actually 
daffy. I can’t believe it! Why! I haven’t slept an hour these 
three days you’ve been acting this way.” 

I couldn’t see Lola’s expression, but I knew it was saintly; 
and her voice came to us softly and plaintively: 

“To-market-to-market-to-buy-a-fat-hog - home - again - home - 
again-jiggety-jog-to-market-to-market-to-buy-a - fat - pig - home - 


202 A Romance of the Road 

again-home-again-jiggety-jig.” It ended in a sigh and Johnny 
fled in terror. 

“It’s merly an obsession, whatever that may be,” Ruby ex- 
plained to him, “and in all probability it will pass as suddenly 
as it came. She seems to be laboring under the belief, that she 
is the re-incarnation, or something like that, of a great poet. But 
I think, really, that it will pass, and that she’ll be all right 
again.” 

“All right, again!” Johnny fairly snorted. “All right! You 
think she’ll be all right, do you? Well, let me tell you! I’m 
not taking any chances of that sort. It’s my private opinion, 
that she’ll never have any more sense to speak of, — and it’s me 
for somewhere else! Jimmy ’n me have stayed in Chicago too 
long anyhow. Goodbye, Miss Ruby. We leave tonight for 
New York. Give her my love, if she ever does come to her 
right mind.” 

And, so, two more of us have felt the touch of that only 
permanent condition, and have heard it say, in its restless way, 
“Tag! you’re It!” 

Going down to the second floor, I found I still had a moment 
to spare, and joined the Doctor as he stood looking out over the 
lake. “I’ve just counted eight different and distinct shades,” 
he said. “There! you can see them again! — long lines of deli- 
cate colorings and shadings — blue, green, gray, purple and their 
various blendings. I never saw the lake more beautiful.” 

“It’s too bad, we haven’t the time to look at it oftener,” I said. 
“Still, I guess it doesn’t pay to be a dreamer.” I hadn’t had a 
talk with the Doctor for ages, and I wished to get him started. 

“Doesn’t? Well maybe not. But I’d rather be in his class 
than any class I know; — that is, the right sort of dreamer. 
There’s a vast difference you know, between the dreamer who 
works to reach his ideals, and the idler who sits down and waits 


Naming the Baby 


203 


for something to happen. Put me in the class with the former, 
and you won’t find me objecting to my company.” 

“Which would be, at least, optimistic,” I ventured, as he 
paused. I always encourage the Doctor to talk, no matter what 
the subject. It’s always helpful, somehow, — and encouraging. 

“Do you know why he’s optimistic?” he asked. “It is be- 
cause his mental attitude is right. He keeps himself in touch 
with the best thought of the times. There is no room in his 
mind for cobwebs. Often, he sends out a good, big thought, and 
creates something of an attitude on his own account. Fre- 
quently, it is the dreamer who points the way to the dawn of a 
great discovery, though he may not, himself, live to see more than 
the first faint signs of sunrise. To be the founder of a great 
thought or the discoverer of a great principle, is the province of 
the optimistic dreamer. Whoever heard of the pessimist sitting 
up nights to discover, or invent, some worldwide benefit.” 

When I went back to my desk, I found letters from John and 
Susie Sands, friends of mine in the country. Here are a few 
of the things they wish me to do for them : 

Susie sends some samples of silk which she asks me to match 
for her, and a sample of a cloth dress which she is planning 
to make over. Now, would I be kind enough to see her dress- 
maker, find out what she needs for the purpose, and order it? 
Would I please keep my eyes open for some genuine bargains — 
things that I know she ought to have — and buy up a few for 
her? Would I find out where she can get some good fish moss? 
And would I take the ostrich feathers she was sending by same 
mail, to a cleaner and dyer, so as to save time for herself, when 
she comes up later? 

John would like to have me give him the address of a reliable 
stamp and coin collector. He had heard of a new patent corn 
sheller, — would I find out about it and advise him? He en- 


204 


A Romance of the Road 


closed measurements for a new overcoat. Would I please take 
them to a good tailor and select the material ? Anything, at all, 
would do, just so it was brown or gray or some other color, or a 
mixture, and was good style. He and Susie didn’t want to give 
me any trouble at all, but as I was right on the ground, they 
knew I wouldn’t mind these little errands, — and, really, it 
would be such a favor to them. 

Oh! No! Of course I won’t mind. That is,' — well, I’m 
fond of John and Susie; very fond of them. But, — 

Isn’t it the oddest thing that they believe, actually believe, 
that because I live in the city, I have practically nothing to do 
but to shop and go to theaters? I wonder if it would be worth 
while to try to explain to John and Susie, just how I’ve been 
trying, for days and days, to find a little time for my own 
dressmaker. I wonder if I could make them understand how 
I have to plan for every strenuous moment, and that an added 
responsibility, at times, comes pretty near to being that last back- 
breaking straw, we have heard about, and that, — 

But it’s no use! They would only feel hurt. I’ll stretch 
the minutes just a little harder, and, somehow, I’ll get the 
errands attended to, — and next time they’ll double the number. 

Lola stopped at my desk to whisper: “The mysterious one! 
Look! She’s going out again!” 

I did have to acknowledge that she looked a little unusual. 

“About three times a day,” whispered Lola, “He puts on her 
long coat and veil, and hurries out. She’ll be back in twenty- 
five minutes, breathing hard, as if from running. And he always 
wears those thick, blue glasses.” 

“Is she a good worker?” I asked. 

“Fine, the Doctor says, and he says, too, that we oughtn’t 
be so curious. But to my way of thinking, there’s a lot of rea- 
son for it. I just know she’s the Prince, and — don’t breathe it 


Naming the Baby 


205 


— but I’m almost in love with him.” Then Lola grew suddenly 
grave. “Falling in love,” she said, “is a risky business, just like 
gambling in stocks. You put in a little at first, just for fun, 
then a little more just for fun, and pretty soon, it ceases to be 
funny, because it is so serious and so much is involved. But 
you keep putting in a little more and a little more, and the first 
thing you know, you’re in so far you can’t get out. And the 
strange part of it is, that often, very often, you don’t want to 
get out. Sometimes, the more you put in, the smaller are your 
returns. But you just keep right on, until either you win out, 
or go bankrupt.” 

“No,” she said, in answer to the question I didn’t ask, “no, I 
haven’t gone broke; but I’m in deep; — very, very deep; — and I 
don’t want to get out.” 

“Henry?” I asked. 

“Of course. It couldn’t be anybody else.” 

“How did you learn so much about stocks?” 

“From Henry. He teaches me a lot of things — -Henry does. 
He’s a lawyer, you know. Why,” enthusiastically, “there isn’t 
a thing that Henry doesn’t know.” 

Fortunate Henry. If I ever doubted that Lola was really 
and truly in love with him, that doubt, this moment, is forever 
gone. When a girl talks like that, she is, indeed, in deep, — very 
deep, — and she doesn’t want to get out. 

There was another letter on my desk. All day long it lay 
mutely before my eyes unopened, and each time I saw it I 
hardened my heart just a little more. And at five o’clock when 
everybody was going home I dipped my pen in the ink-well — 
for of course I should return it, just as I have returned the 
others since I came to that decision down in Shreveport. 

But I had listened without a word, and had heard the girls 


206 


A Romance of the Road 


talk of the ‘‘principal romance’’ without a protest — and by my 
silence I had approved of the title: — A ROMANCE OF THE 
ROAD. 

Is that an index of my real sentiment in the matter? Do I 
really consider it a romance? Do I really wish it to be a 
romance ? 

No! Of course I don’t; not by any means! And I dipped 
my pen in the ink again. . . . 

The last girl from the factory had “rung out.” Sammy stood 
near me ready to go. “Don’t wait for me, dear,” I said. “I’ll 
come presently.” . . . 

The janitor was closing the blinds and still I held my pen 
suspended — * 

And I deliberately threw it aside and opened the letter. I 
don’t know why — for, of course, I didn’t really care anything 
about it. It is the man’s persistence' — his aggressive persistence 
— yes, that’s it. Why, even the dropping of water — just the 
persistent drop by drop — finally wears away the stone. 

And twenty years a commercial traveler ! 

Then I read the letter — just a rhyme it was, but a message: 

I don’t love you, little woman. 

Just because you’re sweet and human; 

I don’t love you, sweetheart, true, 

Just because your eyes are blue. 

I don’t think that you are fair 
Just because you’ve smoke-gold hair. 

Listen: ’Tis a secret sweet; 

’Tis a love-tale all complete — 

Rosy pink from head to feet: 

I just love you ’cause it’s you, — 

Not because your eyes are blue. 

I laughed and said, “How nice of him to remember that my 
eyes are blue and to think my hair smoky-gold.” 


Naming the Baby 


20 y 


The laugh ended in a sob. There was no one to see — and I 
just gave myself up to the luxury of “crying it out.” And the 
tears washed away some of the pent-up heart aches as tears have 
a way of doing ; and I was better because of them. 


CHAPTER XXIV 


WHEN LOVE CREEPS IN 

Ruby: “Ladies, and gentlemen: This little office of mine 
up here on the third floor, has been the scene of many a little 
noon-day meeting. Mostly, these meetings have been joyous af- 
fairs. But, (putting her handkerchief to her eyes) this is a sad, 
sad day for those of us who had raised our hopes to the floor 
above, where, in spite of his perfidy, the manager of the shipping 
department, still re-re-reigns supreme.” 

Bess: (Mock sobbing) “Not one of us but has cause to 
weep to-day, from Smithie, the relentless pay-up-or-go-to-jail col- 
lector, and Clara, the stern watch-dog of the treasury, — Clara 
who makes you feel like thirty cents when you draw ahead, — 
yes, even from these, one of whom has worn roses daily — down 
to little, insignificant me ; all of us, ladies and gentlemen — every 
single one of us, has — has — ” 

Avery: “Felt the witchery of his smile.” 

Laura: “That’s it, — the witchery of his smile. Even 
Sammy and Madge, — Oswald and Mark, notwithstanding, — 
have — have — ” 

Edna: (Sighing) “Admitted the charm of it.” 

Bess: “And, though we had feared,— I mean hoped, — that 
he might deign to choose one of us to reign at his — his — ” 

Rose : “Fireside.” 

Golda: “Hearth.” 


208 


When Love Creeps in 


209 


Ruby: “Yes; at his fireside or hearth, meaning, practically, 
I suppose, the same thing, ladies and gentlemen, — ” 

Lola: (Humbly) “Once more, I implore thee, kind presi- 
dent, show me the gentlemen.” 

Ruby: “I know what you would do if I did, and this is 
no occasion for flirting. Besides, I only add that extra word for 
good measure. I was ever generous ; ’tis my nature.” ( Pauses 
and sighs). “But, as I was saying, ladies and gentlemen, since 
he saw fit to choose outside, let us hide our wounds from the 
world’s cruel gaze, and chip in and buy, — ” (suddenly brighten- 
ing) “what shall we buy for the bride?” 

Analice : “A lamp.” 

Lola : “No ; they won’t care for lights.” 

Jonesie: “A parrot.” 

Smithie: “No; it might teach her poor, dear husband to 
swear.” 

Lucile : “A canary, or a dog.” 

Miss G. : “No; they won’t need any pets, but each other.” 

Rose: “A clock.” 

Agnes: “No; they will take no note of time.” 

Vera: “Appoint a committee, and then we’ll have some one 
to blame if it isn’t right.” 

Ruby: “Good. That’s what I’ll do. Just so it is a nice 
appropriate present, we’ll be satisfied, — I mean pleased; for, 
alas! Never more will we know satisfaction. We’ll appoint 
Sammy and Madge as a committee of three to write the letter 
of presentation, with our sympathy and best wishes,' — I mean 
our love and best wishes, — ” 

Jonesie: “Your envy is too apparent for good taste.” 

Ruby: “ — to the bride, — Mrs. Brocki.” 

They didn’t look so heartbroken, I thought, but Jonesie 
argued, “Only think what a love of a chapter it would have 


210 


A Romance of the Road 


made for the book, if we could have had a wedding right among 
ourselves. We aren’t doing our duty by that book.” 

Clara: “But the mysterious one still remains, you know.” 

Lola: “Yes; and the thrills are piling up daily. That, at 
least, is some consolation.” 

Ruby: “And now, ladies and gentlemen, what other griev- 
ances have we today ? Our sad hearts may not bear much more, 
and lunch is waiting, but — ” 

Gertrude: “Why didn’t we have lunch first, as we usually 
do?” 

Golda: “Who could think of eating at such a time?” 

Ragna: “I respectfully request, madam president, as I have 
done periodically, for years, that all who call me by my first 
name, shall pronounce it correctly; and once more I rise to ex- 
plain that the first ‘a’ is the same as in ‘ah.’ The other ‘a’ can 
take care of itself.” 

Ruby: “I’m in sympathy with you. Yesterday, some one 
called me ‘Rube.’ ” 

Anna D. : “I move, madam president, that we arrest Smithie 
for cruelty to animals.” 

Smithie affectionately patted the head of her pet collie and 
smiled. Dan wagged his tail and smiled in reply. The under- 
standing between these two is so perfect, that Ruby said, like as 
not, Dan wouldn’t testify against Smithie and the motion was 
lost. 

Bess: “But here, madam president, is a real sorrow,” and 
Bess put out a trim foot and viewed it sadly. 

Miss H. : “Where’s the sorrow?” 

Ruth : “Is it a corn ?” 

Bess: “I read in the paper that woman’s feet are growing 
larger, since her advent into the world of business.” 

Rose: “Do you believe it?” 


When Love Creeps in 


211 


Bess: “No.” 

Ruby: “I read the same senseless article. It’s just another 
attempt of some great and learned professor, to shoo us back 
into the old beliefs that a woman must be a soft, painted doll, 
without a particle of independence, and only a mild, misty sort 
of intelligence. Just tell the professor that he’s too late and is 
wasting his time.” 

Jonesie: “And, anyhow, it isn’t true. If our shoes are larger 
than those of our great-grandmothers, it’s only because we’ve 
grown too sensible to pinch our feet.” 

Ruby: “Right as usual. Jonesie may go to the head of her 
class. You will note from that very bright and original remark, 
ladies and gentlemen, that I am really trying to perk up and be 
cheerful. While there’s life there’s hope. And we won’t even 
allow this subject of feet to disturb us.” 

Rose: “Even though we live in Chicago?” 

Ruby: “Even though we live in Chicago.” 

Olive F. : “Did you notice that mean article in the morn- 
ing paper, about the matinee girl?” 

Lena: “Just what is a matinee girl, anyhow?” 

Ruby: “Who can tell us just what a matinee girl is? — 
hands up, — Clara may tell us.” 

Clara: “As I understand it, a matinee girl, is a girl who has 
leisure and pin money, and who devotes a lot of each to the mat- 
inee. She hasn’t much of anything to do, you know, but to 
enjoy herself. And because she sees him so often, she falls in 
love with the hero character, — and the person acting this char- 
acter, usually believes her to be in love with himself. And out- 
siders criticize her,- — all of them, foolishly believing her to be 
in love with the actor. Sometimes, she isn’t exactly sure about 
it herself, but when it comes to a test, she knows that it is the 


212 


A Romance of the Road 


hero in the play she loves and not the man playing the part at 
all, and all this unkind criticism is entirely wrong.” 

Avery: “As unkind criticism usually is.” 

Signe: “There isn’t really anything wrong in her loving the 
hero character; the thing necessary is just to see the difference 
between the character and the man acting it.” 

Jonesie: “Yes; that’s the thing necessary. A noted actor 
once said on that subject, that if he had a daughter, he wouldn’t 
let her get in speaking distance of the matinee actor, but that 
he would let her go to the matinee and fall in love with the 
hero as often as she wished. What he would wish was that she 
might always be able to distinguish between the two, — to keep 
to her ideal, the hero, and to ignore the man, the actor. One’s 
real, actual ideals, are usually safe harbors to steer for. It’s the 
sands along the way that bother.” 

Miss H.: “Right. No matter what our ideals, nor how 
hard we work toward them, there are little by-ways all along 
that seek unremittingly to divert us, — to coax us into another 
direction.” 

Anna D. : “And it’s these that we’ve got to side-step. But, 
Gee! I’d like to try having nothing to do for a while. I’d — 
well, — I’d go to the matinee and fall in love with the actors, 
of course, but I wouldn’t waste my time that way so very much. 
Most of it, I’d spend tramping round in the woods, making up 
with the rabbits and panthers and mud turtles.” 

Lola: “Yes; — the dear little mud turtles! They grow on 
trees, you know, and you gather them just like apples, and — ” 

Ruby: “Girls! Please remember the solemnity of the occa- 
sion. Don’t forget that we are here to weep over lost opportuni- 
ties. How can you be so — so-*-” 

Anna D. : “We really can’t, madam president, we really 
can’t. Go right on with the solemnities.” 


When Love Creeps in 


213 


Agnes: “Referring again to unkind criticism, — Avery says 
it’s always wrong; and it is, because whatever is unkind is 
wrong. But do you know why it is unkind? It is because the 
critic criticizes without knowing any of the conditions. The 
more I think of it, the more I am convinced that no one should 
ever express an adverse opinion of another; for how can we 
know the circumstances in which another is placed, or how can 
we know the real motives of another, — when it often is so diffi- 
cult to understand even our own?” 

Laura: “I guess it’s charity that we all need.” 

Agnes: “Yes; that’s what we all need, — charity.” 

A moment of thoughtful silence was broken by Alice, who 
raised her hand and snapped her fingers. “Please, teacher,” she 
said, “I’m hungry.” 

And Ruby said, “So’m I. Class excused.” 

And the meeting was over. 

I hurried down and found I was in time to go out with the 
crowd to lunch. 

“Speaking of love,” began the Doctor, gazing pensively at his 
menu card. 

“Nobody has mentioned it,” said Mr. Wells. “Shows where 
your thoughts are traveling.” 

“ — and of marriage,” continued the Doctor. 

“The subject is leading you on at a rapid rate, Doctor. Bet- 
ter look out. You’ll be traveling with Brocki, first thing you 
know.” 

“Brocki wouldn’t want me along just now, and, besides, I 
hope to have a more charming companion.” Right here, the 
Doctor looked at Lady Edith, and Lady Edith blushed, as usual. 

For the first time, I took no pleasure in this little by-play. 
It didn’t make me quite so happy today to See Lady Edith and 
the Doctor together as it has heretofore, It somehow saddened 


214 ^ Romance of the Road 

me; it made me feel lonely and left out. I don’t understand 
it. 

“Well, since the subject is mentioned, let us really speak of 
it,” said Mr. Chance. “It’s the biggest thing in the world, love 
is, — and the most indispensable. Hopes die without it. Hearts 
and lives shrivel for lack of it, — and intellect without love, is a 
dullard. Why shouldn’t we discuss it, when it’s the greatest 
subject there is?” 

“And when the greatest compliment a man can ever have 
handed to him, is just the right wife,” said Mr. Wells. 

“And how is a man to know that he is getting just the right 
wife? and how is a woman to know that she is getting just the 
right husband?” asked Miss Fedora. 

“Since the world began,” replied Mr. Chance, “that has been 
the great question. A popular writer, and a favorite with most 
of us, believes now, that he has solved the problem, by com- 
manding Love and Justice to walk hand in hand, — and he says 
that this is possible, only when there is perfect equality between 
the two; and that none but mental mates should ever marry.” 

“I am quite sure of this,” said the Doctor. “A marriage that 
is merely a mating of the male and female animal, is the poorest 
thing on earth. It sickens the soul with its own husks and re- 
verts back upon its own emptiness. It engenders hate and decep- 
tion and leaves its unlovely mark upon futurity. What a man 
wants is a comrade. What a woman wants is a comrade. This 
necessarily demands a mating of mental equals, and it is the love 
of mental mates that endures, because it means equality, partner- 
ship, oneness; — a reason for living and wishing to live. It just 
means love for love’s sake, and is the fulfillment of life’s best 
promises.” 

“And this mental equality, I suppose, doesn’t mean always, 
just a scholastic education,” said Miss Fedora, “for, as I under- 


When Love Creeps in 


215 


stanH it, there must be an equal measure of sympathy, tact, for- 
bearance, and appreciation.” 

“You are right; and the couple possessing these essentials, is 
on the highway to happiness. Any scholastic attainments 
thrown in for good measure, are good and desirable, and are a 
help in the right direction, but happiness is not necessarily de- 
pendent upon them, except so far as they may idealize and teach 
these first requisites. I have had the misfortune to know a few 
people so thoroughly educated, as to be above and beyond all 
sentiment. I have in mind, now, a man who looked upon an 
expression of tenderness, as an indication of unpardonable weak- 
ness. It was when I was a practicing M. D. His wife was my 
patient. She was sound as a dollar, physically, but was spiritless. 
Just spiritless. I prescribed tonics, change of scene, and the 
usual things that doctors advise when they don’t know what else 
to do, — or, knowing the real difficulty, are helpless.” 

“Was she just lonely?” I asked. 

“That was the whole difficulty,” replied the Doctor. “Her 
husband was a very busy man, and it was his honest belief, that, 
when he provided for her, nothing further was necessary. And, 
besides, anything further was poor taste. He shut her completely 
out of his life. Even his office boy was better acquainted with 
him than was she. So she just continued spiritless; and life 
loomed up darker and darkei for her, until it became horrible; 
and then, — ” 

“And then?” 

“One night when she was lonelier than ever before, she turned 
on the gas, — and when morning came, it was all over.” 

“In the midst of material plenty, she was starved,” said Lady 
Edith. “If that husband had just taken her in his arms, on one 
of those lonely days, and had reassured and comforted her with 
a little tenderness, how different things might have been.” 


2l6 


A Romance of the Road 


Lady Edith’s eyes were misty. “Many a miserable thought 
creeps out,” she continued, “when a little love is allowed to creep 
in.” 

And all the afternoon I thought of it — that lonely woman 
starving for love. 

Why should it be wrong for me and right for others — this 
greatest thing in all the world — love? Why should — 

But, no! It would be an insult to the past. Long ago I 
decided it. . . . Love is not for me. . . .We would 

go down the last slope together, he said, — so close that we could 
put out a hand and find an answering clasp, — and — perhaps — at 
last, the Great Father would permit us to cross over together — 
still clasping hands — and comforting each the other, in this last 
great test of loving companionship. . . . But he will never 

ask me again. ... I do not wish him to. . . . Love 

can never again be mine — and I do not wish it otherwise. 


CHAPTER XXV 


"what a beautiful world it is" 

Today at twelve-thirty, there was another meeting up in 
Ruby’s office. I was invited. 

Ruby: “Ladies and gentlemen: Christmas is less than a 
month away, and I’m not going to be ready for it. Pardon me 
if I knit as I talk. These slippers have a long way to travel 
and they won’t start in time unless I kill two birds with every 
stone I throw. What have we today?” 

Lola: “A great, big, yawning chasm of disappointment.” 

Laura: “Don’t take it so hard. Like as not, it wouldn’t have 
been suitable for the book, anyhow.” 

Vera: “What’s it all about?” 

Ruby: “Don’t you know? But you weren’t here yesterday. 
It’s about our mysterious one.” 

Vera: “Isn’t she the Prince any more?” 

Ruth: “Not a bit of it.” 

Ruby: “She has a baby and goes home three or four times 
during the day to see about it. And she wears the blue glasses 
because an optician advised it, and she keeps to herself because 
it is her nature.” 

Vera: “Is he a widow?” 

Lola: “Not even that. He has a good looking husband, and 
they are devoted to each other. They have ideas about working 
now, while they are both young, and taking vacations later on. 

217 


2l3 


A Romance of the Road 


So, we won’t need to mix our pronouns any longer. Really, it’s 
all very prosaic, and I’m disgusted.” 

Anna D. : “So’m I. And it’s hard lines for the book. I 
thought we had a real sure-enough mystery in this girl Prince.” 

Hannah: “Did the Doctor know all the time?” 

Lola: “Yes; and now he laughs and says it serves us right 
for being so romantic and so curious.” 

Analice: “I saw Esther looking at the window display of a 
furniture store Saturday afternoon. Maybe something, after all, 
is going to happen.” 

Ruby: “But think of our mysterious Prince turning out so 
flat and stale. Catch me hunting for mysteries again !” 

Rose: “You’ve heard of the needle in the haystack, haven’t 
you? Well a mystery is just like that when you come to look 
for it.” 

Laura: “Or, like the Irishman’s flea, — you put your finger 
on him and he isn’t there.” 

Analice: “And like as not, there are plenty of them, all 
around us — maybe right in our midst* — if we only knew where 
to look.” 

Laura: “Maybe if we quit looking something worth while 
will really happen.” 

Ragna: “Yes; let’s quit looking. I haven’t the ghost of an 
idea right now, about anything that is out of the ordinary. And 
anyhow, I’m feeling sort of serious. I always do at Thanks- 
giving time.” 

Ruby: “So do I. It’s only three days away you know.” 

Gertrude : “What have we, as everyday workers, to be thank- 
ful for?” 

Jonesie: “Don’t you believe we have something?” 

Gertrude: “Of course; but what is the greatest reason that 
we have in common, as a cause for being thankful ?” 


“What a Beautiful World it is” 


219 


Sammy: “Mr. Chance.” 

Madge: “Mr. Wells.” 

Agnes: “Both.” 

Ruby: “I am convinced that our everyday environments, are 
as nearly ideal as they could possibly be, so long as we must spend 
nine hours every day in an office for a living, — and this, accord- 
ing to my way of thinking, is a lot to be thankful for.” 

“Right,” said one. “And it’s a good idea to remind us of it, 
too. For there are times, when this work-a-day life is something 
of a trial to soul and body. There are days when I feel that I 
shall surely perish from the monotony and grind of it. And 
then it is, that I need to hold on fast and hard, and to comfort 
myself by counting over all these blessings.” 

“And when you do that,” said another, “you always feel bet- 
ter ; and the clouds that were looming up ahead of you, begin 
to break away, and give you a glimpse of the sun and the blue 
sky.” 

“The main thing,” said another, “is just to keep our thought 
right — and to hold on tight, — and be thankful that we’re strong 
and competent, and that we have the work to do, and that our 
lines are cast in such pleasant places.” 

I saw that the girlies were in just the right mood for a good, 
serious talk, and we proceeded to express ourselves, freely and 
unrestrainedly, as is the purpose of this club that was never or- 
ganized, where the supreme officer is president without the 
bother of a formal election, and where the rules and regulations 
are conspicuous by their absence. It is just a place where we can 
talk and help one another, and be wholly free from the bother 
of parliamentary management. 

And before we could believe it, it was one o’clock, and we all 
went about our duties, helped and strengthened and comforted. 

I took Myra’s letter from the locked drawer of my desk and 


220 


A Romance of the Road 


read it again. It is the one she wrote me upon my return from 
that last trip, after I had seen Mr. Hallett down in Fort Gib- 
son. Here is a part of it: 

“It almost killed me, — the joy of it, — to just know that he had 
not been unfaithful. And, do you know, that was all I could think 
of at first, — just that he had not been unfaithful. And then I re- 
membered that he loved me — my splendid lad ! And it dawned 
upon me, just what must happen as soon as he learns that I have 
been found, — but not as he expected. Why he’ll not lose a moment 
in coming to me; and he’ll forgive me for having believed it. And 
then, — Ah ! then ! 

“I shall remain right here with dear Mrs. Watson till he comes. 
I’m playing that Mrs. Watson is my mother, and is sharing all this 
joy with me, as mothers do, — and it makes me very, very happy. 
And sometimes when she kisses me upon leaving the office, I could 
cry right out from gladness. 

“Every night I fall asleep saying ‘One day nearer to Robert.’ 
And every morning I awake with a song in my heart. 

“What a beautiful world it is !” 

‘‘Is it,” I thought, “is it, little Myra? How glad I am that 
you can believe it.” 

And I start at the thoughts that come : The feeling, almost of 
bitterness in my heart; the unrest by which I am suddenly en- 
compassed — all aroused just because some one says that the world 
is beautiful. 

It isn’t like me to be bitter. There is something wrong, some- 
where. I do not understand. And I have so much to be thank- 
ful for — my children, my home, my pleasant, busy days, — and I 
am thankful. My heart is full to overflowing. What more, 
then, can I ask? 

The world is beautiful. And I wish for nothing than just a 
continuance of these great, satisfying blessings. 

But — 

Coming events cast their shadows before them. The approach 
of danger is sensed before its appearance. 


“What a Beautiful World it is” 


221 


I have seen and commended the wisdom of Lady Edith, who, 
in time of peace, is preparing for her battle to come. 

“Your children will leave you,” he said that day up in Keo- 
kuk. “You cannot hope to keep them. And you will be lonely. 
Let me comfort you when they’re gone.” 


CHAPTER XXVI 

THE JOKE 

All day, the wind has blown a hurricane. The lake has 
churned itself into a sea of icy, angry froth, and as far as the eye 
can reach, even to the line where it rises up to meet the gray, 
dismal sky, it is in a fit of tumultuous temper. But it’s Decem- 
ber. And the gloomy skies, the angry lake and the hurricane, all 
are in keeping with the season. 

Sammy took a headache to the office with her this morning. 
Very poor taste of Sammy, I admit. Realizing this, herself, she 
set about the task of sending it back whence it came, — to the 
land of imagination. But it was a very stubborn headache, and 
believed in its own importance so firmly, that it disputed every 
inch of ground, and struggled hard for greater recognition. 

It was just in the midst of this argument, that Mr. Wells, ap- 
preciating the desperate condition of the elements, took down his 
receiver : 

“Connect me with Sammy’s office, please. Hello, Sammy! 
Madge and I are going fishing. Put on your things and go with 
us. Where ? Oh, right over here on the pier, — not far, — close 
up your desk and come along.” 

And Sammy did. She actually presented herself at his door, 
dressed to go out, and nobody, even yet, is altogether sure 
whether the joke is on Sammy or Mr. Wells. 

At the lunch table, Mr. Wells read to us the brilliant shafts 
222 


The Joke 


223 


of wit and poesy, that shot back and forth from his office to Sam- 
my’s, after the joke happened. He was so sure that the joke was 
on Sammy, and Sammy so sure that it was on him. 

(Sammy) : 

“Dear Mr. Wells: — You will admit 
That I am not conceited. 

Tor such a sin, I always knew, 

I hadn’t any reason. 

I thought you thought, I’d sense enough 
(The last word twice repeated), 

To know the sport of fishing, now, 

Is a little out of season. 

A wise man, long ago, hath said : 

‘He who laughs last, laughs best/ 

You think you’ve had your laugh, — and I, — 

Oh! Well! You know the rest. 

The Mizzoury Phool.” 


(Mr. Wells) : 

“A puke from Missouri once came, 

With an intellect rather gone lame. 
Fishing, it seemed, was her hold — 

Not knowing December’s too cold, — 

So, from morning till night, she sat, 

With a can of worms, and no hat. 

Her catch? This is what the fish said: 
‘All she caught was a cold in her head.”' 

(Sammy) : 

“’Tis better an intellect lame, 

Than one which is totally dead; 

And rather, far rather, I’d be, — 

Than an Illinois sucker, you see, — 

A puke, with a cold in her head.” 

(Mr. Wells) : 

“You’re wrong: My face doesn’t tell, 
What state so proudly claimed 
That I was born within its bounds. 

With other statesmen, famed. 


224 


A Romance of the Road 


But to see Missouri’s child. 

With a face like half-past five, 

You cease to wonder why they leave, 

As soon as they know they’re alive.” 

(Sammy) : 

“I see I have the wrong conception 
Of the place where you were born. 

’Tis not the cotton fields of Dixie, 

Nor Missouri’s waving corn, — 

Corn-cracker, puke and gopher, — 

You denounce them one and all. 

You’ll be sorry, when St. Peter 
Won’t know just what name to call. 

Chorus : 

W — dash — H — dash — A — dash — T 
Goodness gracious ! Adam ! 

What can he be! 

The man without a country, 

Can’t share a worser fate, 

Than the fellow who is proud because 
He hasn’t any state. 

I’d rather be a gopher — or a lobster, — 

Gracious! Yes! 

Than to be a big ‘What-Is-It,’ 

And make everybody guess. 

Half-past five, on a summer’s day, 

When the fleecy clouds, kiss the sun’s last ray, 

Then, blushing at an act so bold, 

Flush crimson, to their crowns of gold, — 

Half-past five! Bewitching hour! 

In the garden of day, the loveliest flower! 

Chorus : 

You’ve the map of Ireland on your face, 

But just here, comes the rub. 

You can’t be Irish, for you’re built 
Like the Dutchman, — a la tub! 

There may be another like you, — 

Let us hope there are no more! 

Why! You look like the cold gray dawn of mom — 
After the night before.” 


The Joke 


22 5 


(The foregoing pathetic little ballad should be sung to the tune 
of ‘He Thought He Would a Lemon Hand; But ’Twas a Peach, In- 
stead !’) 

(Mr. Wells) : 

“Since you ridicule my waistline, 

And attack my sylph-like shape, 

I think ’twould be but fitting, 

A comparison to make. 

Now, it’s not my inclination, 

To show in my decision, 

That I am prejudiced, at all, 

In making this revision, 

Since the difference is pronounc-ed, 

To all except a blind-man. 

And I, with my tubby waist-line. 

Am half Irish and half Dutch-man, — 

Then what are you? — so willowy, — 

With a shape so long and lean? 

An idea ! Your ancestors 
Were fishing poles, I ween! 

For, O! You lean and lanky! 

My mind at random roams, — 

For a name that will just fit you! — 

Ah! Now I have it! — Bones! 

(The foregoing should be sung to the tune of ‘Which Would 
You Rather Do or Go Fishing.’) 

(Sammy) : 

“In tracing back rny ancestry, 

You made a big mistake. 

They were not fishing poles, at all; 

Nor yet a hoe or rake ; — 

But lilies! — tall and fair to see; 

That ever upward gaze. 

They smiled beneath the heaven’s blue, 

In Southern, Summer days. 

When, for a fitting name for me, 

Your mind away did roam, — 

Well, — it went a-roaming long ago — 

And never did come home!” 


226 


A Romance of the Road 


And Mr. Wells replied gallantly: “Being a gentleman, I 
shall allow the Lady Bones, the last word.” 

And suddenly, Sammy discovered that her headache was gone. 
Poetry is good medicine. As Josh Billings said of tight boots, it 
makes you forget your other troubles. 

Now, don’t blame me if you don’t like this chapter. I 
wouldn’t, for the world, disappoint Sammy and Mr. Wells, by 
omitting their poetry, — yes, that’s what they called it. They in- 
sisted that it would spoil the story if I used it, — and they are 
probably right, — but I could see that they didn’t really think so. 
And, it’s my private opinion, that they had my book in mind 
when they wrote it. 

Maybe some one can decide for us, whom the joke was on — or 
whether there really was a joke. On this point, too, I have my 
private opinion. 

But, possibly, the state of my own mind has something to do 
with it, — for, listen! I’ve been to see a publisher! Of course, 
the story isn’t quite completed, but it’s nearing that condition, — 
and I wished to find out, if I could, where to send it when it was 
ready. And I found out ! The very first one I called on, told 
me. He didn’t say it in plain words, but his manner was un- 
mistakable. 

When I finally reached home, Vesta bathed my temples and 
made me a cup of tea, and she stopped long enough, right in the 
midst of her ironing, to say,> — “Don’t you let just one of ’em dis- 
courage you. There’re others.” 

Vesta is always comforting. 





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CHAPTER XXVII 

THE UNEXPECTED 

How very strange to find myself suddenly transplanted from 
the tempestuous December of the City on the Lake to the beauti- 
ful summery December on the Gulf. But it is the same old story 
— too old to repeat. A traveler who made a good beginning in 
the Oleander City, and in Beaumont, was called suddenly home, 
leaving the work unfinished at a critical period. I tried to think 
of some “too” as a protection, but I wasn’t too fat, too thin or 
too pretty — and so, here I am. 

But even that is not so strange. It is the other part of it that 
is strange to uncanniness: 

Two days ago was Sunday, and at a certain morning hour, 
my hour for breakfast, the train stopped at Houston. Presently 
someone was staring at me from the other side of my breakfast 
table ; without looking up I saw that it was a man — the imper- 
tinent thing ! What right had he to intrude like that, when there 
were other tables. I was indignant. I would call an attendant 
and ask him to — 

“But I didn’t ring. There was a hand in the way of my 
fingers, and I found myself looking into a pair of brown eyes 
with a twinkle — the dear old twinkle — behind the glasses. 

“Did — did — you drop from the moon?” I gasped. 

“Not unless that’s a new name for Houston,” he said, laugh- 
ing. 


227 


228 


A Romance of the Road 


“It’s positively spooky! Why — ?” 

“Don’t ask me why,” he laughed, “for I don’t know. A tele- 
gram from the house yesterday changed my route, and I work 
Houston tomorrow, instead of San Antonio. An impulse 
prompted me to Sunday in Galveston. I overslept, missed my 
breakfast, headed for the diner the moment I boarded the train, 
almost collapsed from surprise when I saw you! — and now you 
know as much about it as I do. But let us not waste time in 
speculation. Here we are with another whole Sunday together. 
Nothing so spooky about it, is there? Let’s just accept the gifts 
the gods provide us, pluck the flowers along the way without 
question, and so forth, and so forth. It is just a trick of the un- 
expected; just another incident along the way; it’s a part of 
the play — yes, that’s it, a part of the play. We’re on the boards 
and it’s our cue.” 

And I laughed with him, and ordered some more breakfast, 
so as to keep him company. 

“You haven’t told me that you’re glad,” he said presently. 

“It’s because I can’t tell you how glad,” I said. “When I 
was a tiny girl, and I was just so happy over something that I 
couldn’t express it, I always said that I was glad forty bushels.” 

“And are you forty bushels glad today?” 

I nodded. 

And then we forgot to eat and when we weren’t talking, we 
just looked out of the window, and were happy. 

We sped along through forest and by the dismal swamp lands. 
There were cypress trees, and dripping branches and rotting logs 
and greenish mosses, and here and there a long, wriggling snake 
to put life into the scene. Sometimes we had a fleeting glimpse of 
a little promising stretch of a few acres and then came greater 
stretches of the dank, dark, dreary, slimy waste — the dwelling 
place, surely, of the Spirit of Desolation. 


The Unexpected 229 

And again there was a hand in the way of my fingers, and he 
said softly: 

“I’ll stay in the tree, deary, till you say I may come down — - 
but I’m still working on the puzzle, and my heart is in the same 
old place.” 

“But those letters I returned, and the — ” 

“Never mind, dear — just forget it. I knew if I kept on send- 
ing, you would finally open and read one of them — characteristic 
of my every day work you know — many a customer I have won 
just because I wouldn’t give him up.” 

He was in his lighter jollier mood again, and we went back 
to my section in the Pullman where we laughed and chatted till 
I began to open my eyes over the precariousness of the entrance 
that took us from the mainland to the island and the city. 

“I don’t see anything to hinder our falling right over into the 
water,” I said. 

“Just hold your breath and make yourself as light as possible 
— that will help a lot — and pretty soon we’ll be there.” And 
presently we were. “Don’t you see what a wizard I am?” 
he said. “Nothing like holding your breath.” 

“If you weren’t so big, I should surely shake you.” It was the 
same old threat and he replied just as he did before, that he 
wished I would try it. And then we forgot our feud — I, in my 
amazement at the scene, and he, in the enjoyment of my sur- 
prise. 

The men wore linen suits. The women were clad in sum- 
mery laces, and the children wore little sandals strapped on their 
bare feet, or dispensed with the sandals altogether. 

Roses and violets were everywhere in bloom — palm trees 
waved their fronded branches in the perfumed air — and the 
oleander hedges stretched away in the distance like rich green 
ribbons. And it’s December! 


230 


A Romance of the Road 


“It is so beautiful,” I said, “and so tropical. I wonder if it 
is real — or whether I am dreaming?” 

“You look very much awake,” said the Other Traveler. 
“Shall we go to the beach now, or wait till afternoon ?” 

“Let us not wait one single moment.” 

“Then you haven’t seen the Gulf?” 

“How many times must I tell you that I’ve seen only the 
Great Lakes?” 

“To be sure. I keep forgetting what an old land lubber you 
are.” And presently he added, “I’ve always loved the Oleander 
City — used to come here before its flood. All right, we’ll go to 
the beach right away.” 

And presently I stood at the edge of the wonderful sea wall, 
that has made Galveston famous — and looked and looked. 

Wave upon wave of the beautiful waters of the sea came 
rolling in — just as I had seen it in pictures and in my dreams. 
And as we watched, the wind rose a trifle, and the waves put on 
jaunty little caps of white foam and danced and laughed as they 
dashed up a little farther on the beach. And the bathers an- 
swered the challenge of the sea with a laugh in return, and 
saucily waded out to meet the impertinent waves, and to catch 
up the white foam as it came in. 

“I want to do that too,” I said. And we went down the stone 
steps and walked in the wet sand, and let the waves touch our 
feet. 

“Won’t it spoil your new shoes?” he asked. 

“How can you be so material?” I said severely. “Why I’d 
even forgotten that I ever wore a thing so very ordinary as a 
pair of shoes.” 

I took up handfuls of the white foam, just as the children were 
doing, and watched it disappear. I dipped up some salt water 
and tasted it, and filled my little bag with the dainty pink and 


The Unexpected 


231 


white shells. When it would hold no more, I transferred them 
to the Other Traveler’s pockets, and filled it again. 

“Why do you need so many?” he expostulated. “They all 
look alike.” 

“I don’t need them,” I said. “I just like to gather them, 
they’re so pretty.” 

“Your ears always reminded me of them.” 

“My ears! What do you mean?” 

“They’re so dainty and shell-like. I always admired little ears 
for a woman.” 

“You are the oddest man in the world,” I said laughing, and 
when his pockets would hold no more, we sat on a great, granite 
boulder, which, with hundreds of others, was placed at the foot 
of the wall to break the force of the waves in case of storm. 

“I was just thinking,” said the Other Traveler presently, 
“that the same waters, the waters of the great Atlantic, you 
know, are, right this minute, washing the shores of my own na- 
tive land.” 

“Are you homesick?” I asked in quick sympathy, remembering 
how often I had suffered from that same malady. 

“I feel, always, something of a longing for my own country. 
It’s natural, I suppose, but I can’t say I’m homesick, I should 
return to it if I were. I have no one there that is especially near 
or dear to me — and you know I cannot say that of America. 

“Listen!” I said. “The band is playing ‘Marching through 
Georgia,’ — and this is the Southland !” 

“It really is true, I suppose, that the old sectional feeling is 
rapidly dying out. I hear a good deal about it.” 

“It is true; and I’m glad. In my own little pet village in 
Missouri, there are about an equal number of the old soldiers — 
those who wore the gray and those who wore the blue — and they 
march together on Decoration Day. Often I have seen my own 


232 


A Romance of the Road 


special civil war hero of the Blue and his particular friend of the 
Gray, walk arm-in-arm to the music that stirs their soldier 
hearts as it did in ’61.” 

“Evidently you have a soft spot in your heart for the civil war 
veterans.” 

“I love them every one; the hero is my father.” 

We sat on in silence and still were entertained: We were 
together. 

“I 'should like to sit here and dream forever,” I said after a 
time. “Blow beautiful it all is.” 

“Say!” he whispered mysteriously. “I’ve a confession to 
make: I’m hungry.” 

“In the presence of all this?” and I waved a hand seaward. 

“It does make a fellow feel sort of sneaking, but it’s true. 
Shall we return? We can come back this afternoon, you know.” 

“I saw some people lunching at a counter under an awning, as 
we came from the car,” I said. “It would be fun to sit on a high 
stool and eat from a counter. I want to try it. I don’t feel 
ready to return to the city, do you?” 

“Any place or any weather, just so long as we’re together, 
you and I. For beneath this old umbrella, you’re the dearest, 
sweetest fellow ’neath the sky. Don’t hold it against me — the 
rhyme, I mean — it just said itself, knowing I would back its 
sentiment.” 

“But the umbrella?” 

“Imagine it. Imagination adds a lot of things that we 
wouldn’t have, otherwise.” We laughed, and he added, “How 
companionable you are.” 

“You say it almost in surprise,” I replied.” 

“There was a time when it would have surprised me, just a 
little, perhaps — for I would probably have considered you 
‘strong-minded’ — a most sinful and unpardonable condition. It 


The Unexpected 


233 


makes me laugh to think what people used to want women to 
be. Why, even I was tinctured with it a little ; that is why I 
said I might once have been surprised at your combined lovable- 
ness and companionableness. When I was in my ’teens it almost 
repelled me to see women eat. I sort of thought, somehow, that 
they ought to live on honeydew and moonlight, and a girl with 
any sense didn’t appeal to me at all. Had I married my ideal 
at that age, I know I should have despised her a few years later. 
That’s one danger of early marriages. 

“At that period, I actually believed that the horror, pictured 
by a few as the ‘new woman,’ somewhere existed.” 

“And what do you think now?” 

“To that of earth’s wisest, I add my testimony that the new 
woman is the old, old woman we have always known and loved 
and honored, living in the light of the present century. And 
she is dearer and sweeter, a thousand times over, than she ever 
was before. And she is companionable. That is what a man 
wants — a companion.” 

We were climbing the steps as he talked, and as we walked 
along toward the lunch counter, his left hand, hanging at his 
side, touched my right and quickly clasped my fingers. “We are 
’Arry and ’Arriet come to see the circus,” he said, swinging our 
clasped hands between us. 

“In America we would be Jack and Jill,” I corrected. 

“All right, then, we are Jack and Jill.” 

“Have you some peanuts for the elephant?” I asked. 

“All my pockets are full. And I’ll buy some striped candy 
to eat while we watch the monkeys.” 

“And we must have some candy hearts with printing on 
them,” I said. “You will hand me one bearing the important 
question, ‘May I see you home tonight?’ and I’ll blush behind 


234 


A Romance of the Road 


my fan and hand you one saying ‘Ask Pa,’ or ‘I don’t care if 
you do,’ or something like that.” 

“And if some enterprising citizen shall have built a dancing 
pavilion outside, we’ll take our turn with the rest of ’em, and, 
once begun, we shall not know when to stop. Your hair will 
tumble down and your combs will fall out. I’ll wipe my manly 
brow with my red bandana, but we’ll go right on and on, till 
the fiddler breaks down, exhausted, and the music ends.” 

“Can’t you just see that fiddler? He will wear blue home- 
spun and a purple necktie, and he w T on’t play a thing but ‘Ar- 
kansaw Traveler,’ over and over.” 

“You seem rather familiar with the back woods hoe-downs.” 

“My experience as a teacher took me once, for several months, 
miles away from what we call civilization.” 

“Did any of the big boy pupils fall in love with the teacher?” 

“I was eighteen, that winter,” I replied reminiscently. “One 
of my pupils was a few months older.” 

“What became of him?” 

“He is a successful physician in a Western city.” 

“And is a better man from having known you. Perhaps you 
were the inspiration that started him up the steep hill of 
success.” 

“Let us go back to the circus,” I said. 

“It’s great to get away from civilization once in a while if you 
have good company. I know an ideal spot, just the place for a 
honeymoon if the two interested parties were very much in 
love. Want to hear about it?” 

I nodded. 

“It’s a cabin built into the side of a hill. It has chinks in 
between the logs, and log furniture.” 

“How many rooms?” 

“And there is a little river near that is just brimful of fish, 


The Unexpected 


235 


and every year the woods produce the finest crop of squirrels you 
ever saw. There is just one room. We — they — will do their 
cooking out of doors. There’s a kettle and an oven — and other 
things — and over the one door of the cabin there are brackets for 
my gun. I — I — of course, I mean for the other fellow’s gun. 
And I bought a dog for him from the farmer five miles away, 
the nearest neighbor — who will take care of him for us until — ” 

“You bough t! — a — ” I gasped. 

He threw back his head and laughed boyishly. 

“Yes; a month ago. I couldn’t resist it. Why, deary, they’re 
going to have the time of their lives. Think of it! Clean away 
from the world — and with just each other. Gee! I do envy that 
fellow ! I don’t see how he can wait for it to happen.” 

“Let’s go back to the circus,” I said again. 

“All right — only let me tell you first, about the time I first 
saw that cabin and then you won’t wonder that I bought it 
when — ” 

“You— bought— it?” 

“Yes; why not? I knew that fellow was going to need it 
in his business; he’s a friend of mine you know; and when I 
happened round there again last month — ” 

“But— why— ” 

“That’s why. Just because he’s going to need it. But let me 
tell you about the time I first saw it — two years ago it was — and 
it was June; and the vines of the honeysuckle and morning glory 
were all over it, covering up its uncouth coat and making of it 
one great mass of foliage and bloom and perfume. A little dis- 
tance away, there was a vine-covered shed with a rude table and 
a chair.” 

“Just one chair? And how far away is the shed from the 
cabin?” 

“Only a few yards. It’s the dining room, you know. Oh, 


236 


A Romance of the Road 


it’s all delightfully primitive. We — they can go under an um- 
brella if it’s raining. Yes, there’s only one chair — but honey- 
mooners won’t mind that, I’ve heard. And there’s a clumsy old 
cupboard, containing a couple of plates and some spoons.” 

“Why only spoons?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe honey-mooners don’t care for — Gee! 
Don’t ask me! How could I know? I’ve never been a honey- 
mooner. Now, don’t interrupt. Of course, we — they — can 
take along any extras they think they may need, — but they won’t 
need many. They’ll only need each other. Just think, deary, 
how they will sit close together on the bank and fish — and what 
fun it will be to prepare their very simple meals together — with 
not a soul around to bother. And they will eat under the vine- 
covered shed with no one to peek but the morning glories. Re- 
member the lunch we had together under the trees up in Minne- 
haha park?” 

I nodded and said, “The time I thought you were a lunatic and 
hid behind the wall.” 

He laughed. “What good times we have had, deary. Every 
day we have spent together has been a red letter day; the only 
trouble is, they haven’t come as often as they should . . . 

And then, when the spoons have been put away, and the chair 
is resting, the honey-mooners will sit in the door of the cabin 
and watch the moon come up. I suspect that he will have his 
arm around her* — just like his impudence — and maybe her head, 
with the smoky-gold hair will rest on his shoulder, and — ” 

“If I had an imagination like yours, I’d — I’d — ” 

“Well, I have thought of getting a muzzle for it, though it 
seems harmless enough, except around its friends.” 

And again I suggested, “Let’s go back to the circus.” 

“All right, since you insist, — though I do like that door with 
the moon coming up. And, deary! there’s a little boat on the 


The Unexpected 


237 


lazy little river — the comfortable, drifting sort of boat — and 
sometimes he will let it just browse around at its own sweet will 
— and he’ll lay his head in her lap — but, Gee ! Let us hurry back 
to the circus! It’s too much for human endurance — just the 
thought of it ! Honestly, deary, I don’t see how he’s going to wait 
for it to happen. But the circus — let’s see, where were we? 
Oh, yes! When the purple-neck-tied fiddler drops exhausted 
from his chair, we will get a glass of red lemonade and take a 
ride on the merry-go-round.” 

“Will there be a merry-go-round ?” 

“To be sure. We’ll sit in a chariot with high back and sides. 
The sight of you, all rosy and excited, right beside him, will go 
to Jack’s head and when nobody is looking, he’ll — ” 

“No — he won’t!” 

“Well, then, I won’t — not while I’m treed, at least. But as 
Jill, you know very well that is what you would wish Jack to do, 
don’t you?” 

“What geese we are,” trying to withdraw my hand. 

“Isn’t it bliss, though, to be a goose once in a while?” hold- 
ing my fingers more tightly. “I just dote on being a goose. It’s 
a part of my regular business, being a goose is.” 

“Oh! is it?” coldly. 

“That is,” hastily, “sometimes; just whenever I am with you, 
you know. But I’m not so sure that it’s purely goose-like, after 
all. It’s just being natural, without the conventions telling us 
what we may or may not do. We’re on the boards today without 
our consent, deary, and if we are a little nonsensical, just who’s 
to blame ? — that is, if being natural is nonsensical.” 

He glanced ruefully at his pockets: “May I throw away these 
peanuts, dear? I look like a gopher just returned from a corn 
field. I’ll buy a car load for the elephant if I may unload these 
shells in the sand.” 


238 


A Romance of the Road 


“Of course, you may,” I laughed. “I have some in my chat- 
elaine and I can fill your pockets again after lunch.” 

“Tyrant!” he exclaimed, as we perched upon the high stools. 
“I’m beginning to feel henpecked already,” he added in an awed 
whisper, “and, listen: I sort of like it.” 

“I wonder if you would make a nice pet,” I said musingly. 

“What do you mean ?” 

“You know I shall have to have something to pet, when my 
babies are gone. I don’t care very much for cats. I like dogs, 
but care most for them out of doors. It’s a troublesome prob- 
lem — and I don’t know the solution.” 

“Look at me! I’m the answer! Gee! I’m just what you 
want. Why, I’ll eat from your hand in no time. I’ll probably 
require a little coddling, but you won’t mind that. And, no 
doubt, I shall squeal with impatience if my meals are irregular; 
I’ve known porkers to do that. But I shall grunt in amiable 
content as soon as I’ve had all I want to eat — as is another way 
of theirs. I shall want my ears rubbed and my back scratched, 
but on the whole, I shall be a nice sort. I won’t need a jeweled 
collar, nor an airing at the end of a string. I shall prefer my 
sty with papers and pipe and slippers. Yes, I’m certain that I 
was cut out for the position and that I shall make a pet worth 
while. So that part of it is settled. What else ?” 

“Nothing else — you audacious, aggressive, persistent, imper- 
tinent old commercial ! Nothing else !” 

And he threw back his head and laughed — that irresistible, 
boyish laugh, — and though I didn’t wish to, I laughed with him. 

“Didn’t we have a nice time at the circus?” he asked presently. 
“If only you had allowed Jack to — ” 

“Never! There goes your imagination again.” 

“But as I was saying, if you only had — I could have taken 


The Unexpected 


239 


the memory of it back to Houston with me this.evening. Tues- 
day morning I shall be here again, enroute for Beaumont.” 

“Won’t it be nearer for you to go there direct from Houston?” 

“That isn’t the question. I prefer to go to Beaumont via 
Galveston. It is very necessary to my peace of mind that I do 
so. In fact, I don’t see that I can possibly take any other route — 
positively don’t see how I can.” 

“Maybe your spectacles are bad. You know it is Tuesday 
that I go to Beaumont, myself.” 

“Now, you don’t say so! That will mean another day to- 
gether. Unfortunate — very unfortunate, indeed! Still, on the 
whole, I believe I may be able to worry along and endure it.” 

And this is Tuesday morning. I am up early, very early — 
primarily because I couldn’t sleep. The other reason is because 
I wish to tell about our Sunday in the Oleander City while I 
have it all in mind — though it is doubtful if I shall ever be able 
to forget it. 


Beaumont, Dec. 9. 

The little water trip over to Port Bolivar, was full of sur- 
prises to my land-holden eyes. It was a beautiful, sunshiny 
morning and the water was sparkling like a sea of diamonds. 

“Isn’t it all beautiful?” I said. That’s the remark I had weakly 
made at every turn, vainly attempting to express my apprecia- 
tion, since I entered the Oleander Island two days before. 

“Any place or any weather, just so long as we’re together, you 
and I,” he quoted. “It’s that old rhyme getting the better of 
me again. I’ll see about coaxing a new one to take its place.” 

Landing at Port Bolivar, we boarded the little old slow train, 
which, with a creak and groan, overcame its natural inclination 
to lay off a day, and took up its isolated trail along the water’s 


240 


A Romance of the Road 


edge, bound for Beaumont. And very soon I forgot its lament — 
ceased to tender it even one thought of sympathy — for I was 
kept busy feasting my eyes upon the beautiful waters of the 
great Gulf sea, often so near that we threatened to throw in 
a fishing line when the train stopped to rest. And along the 
way, always in the spots where the train did not stop, there were 
the most beautiful shells — half hidden in the grasses — just daring 
some one to find them. 

“Do you know,” said the Other Traveler, “that this very leis- 
urely train is wasting a lot of time for ‘us commercials?’ ” 

“Don’t you wish, now, that you had gone direct from Hous- 
ton?” 

“Nothing could ever make me wish that, not even — ” 

“I don’t know what he had meant to say — for something hap- 
pened. I had never been in a railway wreck. But instinctively 
I knew that I could never say that again. 

There was a creaking, grinding jolt — and I felt the car turn- 
ing over. It did it leisurely ; for the nature of the train did not 
desert it, even now. Even this first grinding jolt, I am told, was 
not nearly so vehement as the jolts and grinds of other trains. 
So the car lay down on its side, almost sleepily; and somehow 
we all scrambled out and stood looking at one another — sur- 
prised and excited and sort of foolish. 

“Not a soul hurt!” said some one. “There were ten in the 
car — and we’re all here — no ! By Jupiter ! There are only nine !” 

I was sort of dazed just at first, but all the time I was looking 
for the Other Traveler. And now I knew that he was the tenth 
passenger — and was missing! 

A terrible fear gripped me all over — and my heart seemed 
to die that instant. Had I been in the proper mental condition 
to make a statement, I would have told myself that it was never 
going to beat another stroke. 


The Unexpected 


241 


And then, as through a glare of painful brightness, I saw the 
trainmen bringing a man’s form through the twisted doorway 
and lay it on the ground — and almost at the same moment I had 
lifted the head to my lap and was wiping away the blood from 
a wound on the forehead — and all the time I was saying things! 

It seemed an eternity before he opened his eyes and smiled 
and said he guessed he wasn’t hurt much — just stunned. 

The car was pried up and somehow gotten onto its tracks 
again — and we came on to Beaumont! — and I’m writing this as 
I wait for the train that is to take me north — for I shall not 
work Beaumont. 

It seems ages and ages ago since leaving Galveston this morn- 
ing — so many things have happened. 

No! I’ll not give up — not yet! 

There’s my train. I’m so weary — so tired of everything — of 
myself most of all. 


Chicago, December 14. 

And this morning I have the letter that I knew would come : 

“Deary: — You can’t prevent it now — I shall call you that from 
now on just whenever I wish to — and I’m going to wish to very 
often. 

“Yes, I forgive you for cutting Beaumont. I told you I would, 
and meant it. I even forgive you because you wouldn’t allow me 
to stay with you at the station until train-time. And I forgive you 
because you sat so quietly, almost sternly all the way into Beau- 
mont after that absurd accident. I forgive you joyously. Why I 
am absolutely hilarious when I remember your perfectly frigid po- 
liteness. 

“All the time I was secretly hugging myself and giving my back 
the most congratulatory little pats you ever saw— or can you see 
a pat? 

“And I don’t care a rap for that stony good-by that evening. 
For listen : I heard what you said as you sat on that damp, grassy, 
reedy, ground with my head in your lap. And I could have opened 
my eyes fully three minutes sooner than I did — and I glory in the 


242 


A Romance of the Road 


shame-less confession. And I knew you suspected it — afterward. 
That’s why you put on so many airs, deary — I knew it right away, 
and I don’t care! Do you hear that? I don’t care a rap! I’ll 
never let you go back on what you said to me as I lay there dead, 
though not so dead toward the last as I seemed. You said — Yes! 
I’m going to tell you. I’ll never forget the tremble in your dear 
voice. Now I’ll just whisper it: You told me that you loved me — 
yes you did. And you said ‘I’ll marry you dear — I’ll marry you, 
Hilbert, dear, if you’ll only live !’ You said it over and over — and 
once I felt a pressure on my forehead that was different from the 
touch of your lingers ! And I know what it was. And I shall 
claim a million more of them just like it. And, remember, you 
called me Hubert. I never liked the name so much until I heard 
you say it. 

“You are mine now, darling — yes I’m going to call you darling 
too, — and you can’t get away from me. And I know you don’t 
wish to get away from me. By the time you receive this letter you 
will be ready to hear this. You were not ready that evening, and 
I let you go. 

“I’m coming down that tree in rapid slides. My feet are almost 
on the ground — just the puzzle in the way, and in a little while I 
shall see you. Hubert." 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


THE BRIDE 

Ruby: “I’m too utterly crushed even to address the ladies and 
gentlemen.” 

Lola: “It certainly is the last camel that broke the straw’s 
back. I mean 1 — I mean — ” 

Anna D. : “Look out! You’ll be dippy again.” 

Laura: “We’re all that way, right now.” 

Anna D. : “What way?- Like Esther?” 

Ruby: “Gracious! No! But there’s no telling how many of 
us are closely following. Honor bright, girls, — how many of 
us are engaged? Let’s confess. We’ll find it out anyhow, 
sooner or later, — hands up ! One, two, three — what only three ? 
— Oh! Clara and Golda! Don’t be bashful, girls. Put your 
hands way up high like mine, — I mean like mine would be if I 
were engaged. And, so, after all, Clara was just fooling about 
grieving over Mr. Brocki. As to Golda, — well, you can never 
tell what a girl with a determined little mouth like Golda’s, is 
going to do.” 

Anna D. : “More determined than little, please notice.” 

Ruby: “It’s just right. And it has just the sort of a bow that 
Cupid loves, and her dimples are the hiding places for his ar- 
rows.” 

Signe: “Just hear our president! This meeting has gone to 
her head.” 


243 


244 


f A Romance of the Road 


Ruby : “Oh ! here’s another hand ! Elizabeth ! Isn’t this a glo- 
rious meeting? — and I don’t care if it has gone to my head. And 
Elizabeth is just back, too.” 

Edna: “Is it someone you met in the wilds of Omaha, Eliza- 
beth?” 

Elizabeth: “Omaha is not ‘wilds’.” 

Edna: “Any place is that’s away from this great and glorious 
world’s metropolis. Haven’t I lived here all my life, and 
oughtn’t I to know?” 

Bess : “So’ve I. But maybe that’s the reason we don’t know. 
Sometimes I almost believe there are other places. Sammy says 
there’s a Missouri, and I’ve heard that Omaha, — ” 

Avery: “Girls! How can you talk geography? What’s the 
difference whether there is any place at all? It’s Loveland we’re 
discussing.” 

Miss H. : “Yes; let’s discuss nothing but Loveland while 
we’re in the mood; the notion might not strike us again.” 

Ruby: “That’s so. Now, I’ve thought ever since Elizabeth’s 
return, that she’s been sort of different. But, of course, she was 
away a whole year, and I thought, maybe, — still, haven’t some 
of you noticed it?” 

Clara: “We’ve been so glad to have her back, we haven’t seen 
the change. What is it?” 

Signe: “Why, it’s a sort of far-away expression. I saw it, 
myself. She looks as if she were thinking a great deal about 
some one person, and the thoughts were — well, it’s something like 
Esther looked before — ” 

Edna: “Spare her blushes, and I’ll tell you all about it, myself, 
at our next meeting. I’m a self-appointed committee to find out. 
It’s time we taught these girls a lesson that go away and leave us 
feeling that they are sad because they leave us, — and then have 
the audacity to come back with an expression in their eyes, that 


The Bride 


245 


plainly tells us they haven’t missed us at all. We would just as 
well begin on Elizabeth, as to wait for the next one that does it.” 

Clara: “And this reminds me of Helen M., out in Denver, 
who, — ” 

Ruby: “Oh! Here are Gertrude, Vera, Analice and Lena, 
with their little hands up. Now, what do you think of that! 
Why, they’re nothing but babies!” 

Gertrude, Vera, Analice and Lena: “We’re as old as you, 
Miss President, every minute of it.” 

Ruby: “You’ll have to prove it; and until you do, I shan’t 
acknowledge or announce that you’re really engaged. You must 
give us grown-ups a chance first. The very idea! Why, I’ve a 
mind to, — Oh! another hand, — Laura. Well, he’s a lucky 
fellow and I hope he’ll realize and appreciate his good fortune. 
When Laura gets to housekeeping, I’m going to visit her often. 
She can make fudge that melts in your mouth, and she knows 
just how to broil steak to perfection. Why, Laura was just cut 
out for a nice, sweet home-keeper; the sort you read about in 
books, and — ” 

Gertrude, Vera, Analice and Lena (pouting) : “It’s so pleas- 
ant to be squelched. We just love it.” 

Rose: “I wish to remind our beloved president, that we no- 
ticed her own hand, when it was up, and a few remarks about 
herself, wouldn’t be out of place.” 

Ruby: “Oh! Here’s another hand, — Agnes. How can I say 
anything when there are so many other sinners to confess. Now, 
I protest, when it comes to Agnes, and I’m going to circulate a 
petition against it, immediately. We can’t all desert Mr. Wells 
can we ? And Agnes has been here so long, that it-—” 

Miss H.: “Which gives her all the more reason to go the 
very first one if she wishes.” 

Ruby: “Maybe so. But I’ll start round the petition paper just 


246 


A Romance of the Road 


the same, on general principles. Why, this business couldn’t 
keep house without Agnes. No! it couldn’t! Why, Agnes was 
with it when it wore kilts and ate popcorn! — and shall we let 
her go now? Never! At least, not without a big, full-grown 
protest. Ah! another hand. Ten altogether. Well, it could be 
worse, stilly — *” 

Lucile: “The trouble is, these engagements, if allowed to run 
on, may result in weddings.” 

Vera: “Goosie! What do you suppose they’re for? But of 
course, you’re only fifteen!” 

Lucile: “Just the same, I could talk right out in meeting, and 
tell something, too, if, — ” 

Hannah: “Well, why don’t you?” 

Rose: “Yes; why don’t you?” 

Lena: “Yes; what is it?” 

Lucile: “Well, I’m not engaged, but I’m engaged to be en- 
gaged, — so there!” 

Avery (After a pause) : “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain, 
Lucile, — you’re too deep for us.” 

Lucile: “Well, — there’s a boy out West, and he’s just fifteen, 
too. He’s a fine boy — and he’s going to be a finer man, and — ” 

Lena: How do you know?” 

' Lucile: “He told me; and,' — 

Ruby: “Well?” 

Lucile: “Well, we’re not engaged yet, because we’re only fif- 
teen ; but we’re engaged to be engaged when we’re twenty-one.” 

Ruby : “Perfectly clear. Allow me, in behalf of the meeting, 
to extend congratulations to the baby, who is engaged to be en- 
gaged. Hannah and Rose and Alice may find this to be a solu- 
tion to their own problems.” 

Hannah, Rose and Alice: “But we’re more than fifteen.” 

Ruby: “You’ll have to prove it; and until you do, I shall 


The Bride 


247 


acknowledge nothing more for you than that you may become 
engaged to become engaged when you’re twenty-one, just as wise 
little Lucile has done. And, now, we must no longer postpone 
the real object of our meeting. Prisoner at the bar, (to Esther) 
what have you to say for yourself?” 

Esther: “Guilty and glad of it.” 

Ruby: “Shameful! And when did it happen?” 

Esther: “Vacation.” 

Ruby: “And you’ve kept it from us all these weeks. Dis- 
graceful! And where is the man in the case? And why did you 
sneak upon us in this sort of fashion ?” 

Esther: “Please, most high and gracious president, I think it 
was because I wanted to, — and Steve will be back tomorrow. 
I’ve handed in my resignation, and next month, we’ll be at home 
to all of you, in Honeymoon Flat.” 

Edna: “Madam president, I feel that we ought to demand 
an explanation from the fair prisoner. It was only about a 
year ago that she came to us from far-away Louisville, which I 
understand is really on the map, even though it is outside of — ” 

Rose : “Geography barred.” 

Ragna: “Yes; geography is barred.” 

Edna: “Anyhow, she ought to explain, because some of us 
have lived here all our lives, and yet, — ” 

Jonesie: “She has out-distanced us. Yes, she ought to ex- 
plain.” 

Laura: “Madam president, I move that we immediately pro- 
ceed to get a job for Edna with the city boosters. Too long has 
she been out of her proper sphere. At the same time, let us have 
an explanation from our bride.” 

Signe: “Yes — do!” 

Ruby: “Prisoner at the bar you hear the demand of the 


248 


A Romance of the Road 


populace. Will you proceed quietly and without resistance, or 
shall we put you in the sweat box?” 

“It’s so very simple,” laughed Esther, “that I don’t think 
drastic measures necessary. You see, Steve and I were just wait- 
ing for each other and didn’t know it. Why, at the time we 
met, we were each trying our very best to care for some one else, 
and didn’t understand why we couldn’t succeed. So, one morn- 
ing, our guardian angels talked it over and repented — and al- 
lowed us, when transferring at the corner, to see each other. 
After that, they allowed us to see each other every morning, and 
we wished more and more, that we dared speak. But, you see, 
our guardian angels failed in their duty right there. They 
didn’t introduce us; and we were so afraid of the proprieties, 
that we could only worship at a distance. And then, you re- 
member the morning of the accident, that day I was absent, you 
know, — well, it was Steve, himself, who pulled me through the 
window of the wrecked car and took me home. And we found 
that he lived just three blocks away, and was a friend of a 
friend of ours, and it all came about so that the proprieties were 
perfectly satisfied, and it was such a harmless little accident, — 
nobody hurt the least bit, not even badly frightened, — that I’ve 
always believed our guardian angels had a hand in bringing it 
about, just for Steve and me.” 

Miss H.: “No doubt of it; and I don’t blame them a bit. I 
would have done it myself.” 

Rose: “If I were a guardian angel, I would just go about do- 
ing things like that, all the time. Making lovers happy should 
be my specialty.” 

Ruby: “Sergeant, (to Anna D.) lead out the culprit while 
we pronounce sentence.” 

Olive F. : “What a pretty bride she is. I almost wish—” 


The Bride 


249 


Jonesie : “That you were one. Well, it makes me feel sort 
of wishful, too.” 

Edna: ‘Tve a headache; and I’m blue as indigo.” 

Ruth: “So’m I. Wish some fool would kiss me.” 

Lola: “What a lot of sentimental goosies we are. We’re all 
half crying.” 

Ruby: (seriously) “After all, girls, it’s just what every one of 
us is hoping for, — a happy marriage. No matter where we may 
be, or what we may do, back of it all, there is the vision of a 
home of our own and some one to love us.” 

Clara: “You’re right; but we don’t need to cry about it, so 
let’s dry our eyes and comfort ourselves with the thought that 
some of these days, we’re all going to do just what Esther has 
done.” 

Ruby: “Yes. Just think how many of us are already engaged, 
— and I’m just about as suspicious of those who didn’t hold up 
their hands, as of those who did. I won’t mention any names, 
but if Smithie, Jonesie, Olive F. and Ruth hadn’t looked so self- 
conscious, possibly they could have fooled us. But as it is,- — ” 

Laura: “And did you notice Edna’s eyes, madam president?” 

Ruby: “They always look that way, you know, as if their 
owner had been into something, — but come to think of it, — I 
believe they do seem just a little more so than usual. So, to be 
on the safe side, I’ll just put Edna on the list, too. And, do you 
know, I almost doubt Signe. Yes, — I know, — she’s quiet and 
all that, — but I rather think that is a reason for suspecting her. 
’Twouldn’t surprise me if we found that her name should, at 
least, be on the list of suspects. Gracious ! what a lot of wedding 
presents to buy! Let us hope they won’t all come in a bunch. 
As a committee of five, to select just the very nicest one for 
Esther that we can possibly pay for, I appoint Sammy and 
Madge. They’ve been shirking, lately, anyhow. And we’ll plan 


250 


A Romance of the Road 


further celebration of the event, after we’ve had time to think 
of it a little more. What we wish, is to do everything we can 
to let Esther know how much we have loved her and how much 
we wish for her perfect happiness. And now, — anything else?” 

Alice: “I’ve heard that the book is almost finished.” 

Gertrude: “What book?” 

Golda: “Second time you’ve asked that. The third time will 
mean capital punishment.” 

Lola: “When I went to get my picture taken, it bu’sted the 
camera.” 

Bess: “Help! Couldn’t you think of an older one than that?” 

Golda: “Lola will be the death of us, yet. She’s so funny 
and original. And, by the way, Miss president, I think Bess 
should be on your list of suspects, too.” 

Ruby: “I rather think so, myself. But, as said above, — ” 

Rose: “Above what?” 

Velma: “She thinks she is writing a letter. Last night, I 
ended my prayer with ‘Yours very truly.’ ” 

Ruby: “Well, as I was saying, if any girl here is contem- 
plating some hair-raising deed or side-splitting performance, and 
if she wants to see it in print, she better hurry, or forever after 
hold her peace.” 

Anna D. : “In other words, if you’ve got any stunts to pull 

off,—” 

Vera: “Put her out!” 

Avery: “Can’t Mrs. Von get us all safely disposed of in the 
book, and save us the bother of it?” 

Golda: “This book is a regular Geo. W. story for truth, ex- 
cept where it’s fiction. I’m told that she even refused to marry 
off Signe, — and if she wouldn’t do it for Signe, none of the rest 
of us need apply.” 

Ragna: “Girls, I’ve something on my mind, too.” 


The Bride 


251 


Lola: “Aha! Something on her mind! Let me tell you, 
it pays to walk in the straight and narrow path. Proceed, Rag- 
gie, dear, — please observe that I’m pronouncing the “a” as in 
“ah.” Perk up your ears, girls! maybe there’s a mystery in the 
air, even yet.” 

Ragna: (bashfully) “I didn’t hold up my hand a moment ago, 
and I didn’t look guilty like the girls whose names our president 
said she wouldn’t mention, but — ” 

Lola: “Oh! I thought it was going to be different.” 

Ragna: “ — but, — ” 

Jonesie: “But you’re engaged just the same. Good little girl 
with a conscience. Now tell us all about it. I’ll hold my book 
in front of your face so these naughty girls can’t look at you.” 

Clara: “And to think that she didn’t tell even me — me! her 
best friend. Didn’t I warn you, long ago, about the deep run- 
ning of still w T aters? You never can tell what sort of surprises 
these quiet ones are going to dazzle you with.” 

Lola: “They’re almost as bad as the people like poor little 
Lola, who tell all they know, and throw in a little extra for 
honest weight.” 

Clara: “And about Helen M. out in Denver. You’d never 
guess what a great time she’s having, and it’s my private opinion 
that she won’t be just Helen M. very long, — and she’s another 
quiet surprise, like Ragna. The next quiet girl that comes to my 
desk, shall be labeled suspicious.” 

Edna: “Did I hear you mention a place called Denver? And 
are you sure it’s on the map?” 

Golda: Madam president, don’t hold it against Edna. She 
isn’t responsible — she’s just a born booster and can’t help it.” 

Lola: “Now, people like poor little Lola, — ” 

Ruby: “Another one not responsible! — and, but girls! Be 
quiet a moment! We’ll talk it all over, plan a surprise for 


252 


A Romance of the Road 


Esther, congratulate Ragna, and the rest of us, — I mean the 
rest of you, — later on! Let us hear, now, from the raw re- 
cruits, — I mean, the new members, — Fern and Jean.” 

Girls: “Fern and Jean! Fern! Jean!” 

Jean: ‘Tve been listening, Madam president, to these confes- 
sions about engagements, and — ” 

Anna D. : “Don’t get cold feet!” 

Ruby: “Anna D. ! A few more fines for language like that, 
and you won’t have car fare left. Go on, Jean.” 

Jean: “Well, I’m engaged to six of them.” 

Laura: “Six what?” 

Jean: “Young men, of course. Good-looking ones, too.” 

Hannah: “Wasn’t that a mean trick to play on them?” 

Lena: “Do tell us how you managed it.” 

Jean: “It would have been mean, if there were going to be 
any disappointments. But there aren’t. They just did it on a 
sudden impulse, and every single one of them will be relieved 
when I break with him.” 

Miss G. : “But tell us how you did it.” 

Signe: “Miss G., being married doesn’t need to know. But do 
tell the rest of us.” 

Jean: “I’ll try. Well, to begin, there’s a sugar barrel in our 
pantry, a sugar barrel, — ” 

Rose: “That’s simple enough so far, — go on.” 

Jean: “ — and the pantry shelves are always lined with nice 
things to eat. Each of these boys was led out on his special even- 
ing, to this nice, fat pantry, — 

Hannah: “And then what?” 

Olive F. : “Seems to me that Hannah is showing an unseemly 
interest in this matter.” 

Jean: “I had a cunning little lace apron handy that I always 
put on, and I had him tie the bow for me, and, — ” 


The Bride 


253 


Hannah: “And then, — ” 

Jean: “ — I perched upon the sugar barrel, and I peeked round 
on the high shelves for dainties, which I pretended I had made, 
just because I knew he was coming, — and we ate and talked, — 
and ate and talked, — and it all went to his head, and somehow 
before he knew it, he had asked me to marry him. And I proved 
again, that there is at least, one sure path to a man’s heart.” 

Bess: “You’ll do!” 

Ruth: “ ‘Welcome to our city!’ I can see that you are des- 
tined to be a bright and shining light in our midst.” 

Lola: “Madam president, please excuse me while I telephone 
my order.” 

Ruby: “What order?” 

Lola: “Sugar barrel.” 

Anna D. : “Gee! If this gets out, they can’t make ’em fast 
enough ! Now Fern, it’s your turn.” 

Ruby: (To Anna D.) “Sergeant, there’s a knock at the door. 
Please investigate.” 

Anna D. : “Most high and mighty and reverend president, ’tis 
a weary pilgrim from the isolated province of Mother-in-law.” 

Edna: “Is that place on the map?” 

Anna D. : “In other words, madam president, ’tis the Star of 
our Traveling Force; in other words, our Esther’s mother.” 

Ruby: “She is welcome. And tell her we love her just the 
same as if she had remained in Chicago.” 

Edna: “But, again, I ask, — is that strange province on the 
map?” 

Ruby: “But how do you know she is the Star of our Travel- 
ing Force?” 

Anna D. : “She told me so, her own self.” 

Ruby: “Then it’s true — and is just as I’ve suspected. Bid the 


254 ’A Romance of the Road 

Star enter, even though the rest of us are the merest satellites in 
comparison.” 

The Star: “No, Edna, the province of Mother-in-law is not 
on the map. It’s a state that’s carried round by mothers. Some- 
times, it is grievously heavy, — and heart-breaking. Sometimes 
it is light and sweet and wholesome. But there’s always a risk. 
And we mothers are such queer beings, that we voluntarily and 
joyously enter into this strange country, because some boy or 
girl, that we love a great deal more than we love our own lives 
wishes us to.” 

Edna: (Thoughtfully) “I suppose my own sweet mother will 
do the same thing, — some time, — if I, — wish it, — and — ” 

Ruby: “Of course ! And so will mine, — and, — but we’ll have 
to change the subject, or we’ll — all be — ” 

Elizabeth: “Yes! Let’s change the subject. My handker- 
chief is down stairs.” 

Anna D. : “Most pious and beauteous president, please in- 
stigate an inquisition, and — ” 

Golda: (weakly) “Again, I implore you, put her out.” 

Anna D. : “ — and find out who else has bu’sted cameras. I’m 
not sure that I wish my fair countenance exposed unless I know 
the crowd.” 

Clara: “Now’s your time to decide, for we’ll all be there, — 
all but Madgie and Sam. I mean, Sadgie and Mam. I 
mean — ” 

Avery: “Never mind what you mean. Nothing’s too nice for 
the nice pair, and they needn’t be so sure that they won’t be in 
the show, either. There are, at least, two of their photographs, 
that escaped them, and are still at large.” 

Laura: “Is it a joke?” 

Avery: “Yes.” 

Agnes: “When will we know?” 


The Bride 


255 


Avery: “When the book is published.” 

Elizabeth : “A moment ago, when the president wasn’t look- 
ing, I saw that same nice pair slip out of the room. Where are 
they?” 

Vera: “In Sammy’s office, writing poetry.” 

Edna: “Help!” 

Clara: “If you don’t believe they can write poetry, just ask 
their mothers.” 

Smithie: “Yes; just ask their mothers. I was calling, once, 
in the country, where the eldest of the family was a youngster of 
seventeen, with long hair and loud hose. He had heard that 
poets dressed that way; and he was a poet. ‘Why,’ said the 
father, ‘that boy even talks in poetry, he’s just so chock full of 
it, and when you ain’t even expectin’ it he’ll answer right back 
at you with a rhyme or something. Like’s not he’d do it, now.’ 
And the doting parent called out, ‘Joe, where’s the hoe?’ And 
Joe answered dreamily, ‘Where’s the bo?’ ‘Now! What did I tell 
you?” said the father. ‘He’s a wonder, I tell you, — yessir! a 
wonder !’ ” 

Signe: “Mrs. Von Meyer and the Star are smiling at each 
other. I suspect that they are in sympathy with that doting dad, 
and probably wouldn’t be ashamed to confess it, if we asked 
them. But we haven’t heard from Fern yet.” 

Fern: “I’m most ashamed to confess, Miss president, that I’m 
engaged to just one.” 

Analice: “One what?” 

Fern: “The only one. In all the world, there’s not another 
like him.” 

Edna: “I suppose, when the angels designed the pattern for 
him, it was just an experiment.” 

Fern: “Yes; and then they saw that it wouldn’t do to make 
any more.” 


256 


A Romance of the Road 


Rose: “Why?” 

Fern: “He was too perfect; so they just destroyed the pat- 
tern.” 

Bess: “Good for Fern! Talk about your doting dads! The 
fact is, we’re all daffy about some one or other, — sweetheart, 
children, or some one.” . 

Jonesie: “Of course we are! We’ve got to love, the same as 
to be loved.” 

Ruby: “Ladies and gentleman, — you’ll note from that, that 
I’m reviving, — we’re in great good luck to have these new mem- 
bers, Fern and Jean. And, though they come in at the eleventh 
moment, yet they shall be entitled to full pay and short hours.” 

Analice: “And, now, lest we may not have another meeting 
for some time, let’s tell Mrs. Von Meyer that we like being in 
a book.” 

Clara: “Let us hope that she has painted us nicer than our 
office manners sometimes make us seem.” 

Gertrude : “Of course she has. And why not? We’re all cross 
and horrid at times, but, after all, we’re all right, and nobody 
knows it better than Mrs. Von Meyer.” 

Lola: “Sometimes, she’s cross herself. She loses her temper 
just the same as the rest of us.” 

Ruby: “Of course. Why not? Mrs. Von Meyer has the 
same right as any one else to make herself foolish once in a 
while.” 

Vera. “Does losing our tempers make us foolish, then?” 

Ruby: “It’s the biggest fool thing I know of, — getting angry, 
is.” 

Agnes: “Getting angry, — yes. But as to losing your temper, 
- i -Mr. Chance says the most sensible thing one can do, in all 
the world, is to lose it so completely, that you can never, never 
find it again.” 


The Bride 


2$7 


Jonesie : “That’s a new way to look at it, — and it gives me an 
idea! I shall bury mine tomorrow, — and forget to mark its 
grave. You’re all invited to the funeral.” 

Analice: “I shall be busy attending one of my own.” 

Lena: “So shall I.” 

Vera: “And I.” 

Ruth: “How easy it is to resolve; and how difficult, some- 
times, to stand by the resolution.” 

Signe: “True. But we can always resolve again.” 

Laura: “Which means that it is never too late to mend, — isn’t 
that the idea?” 

Signe: “Exactly.” 

Avery : “Every day is a new day. It was a pessimist who said 
that opportunity knocks at our door but once. Why! every day 
is a new opportunity. And it is our God-given privilege to for- 
get the mistakes of yesterday, and to each day build anew.” 

Ruby: “Right as usual, and — ” 

Ragna: “And this time it is Avery who may go to the head 
of her class. That’s what our beloved president was going to 
say.” 

“How preachy we all get, sometimes,” said Lola presently, 
“and how beautifully we all take it from one another. Why, I 
listen, as meek as a lamb, to the things the girls say to me here, — 
when I wouldn’t stand for it a moment, if it came from out- 
siders.” 

“That’s all because we love one another,” said Clara. “And, 
do you know girls, we’re all going to be separated, — scattered 
to the four winds before we realize it. I don’t know whether 
other places of business are like this or not, for I never worked 
anywhere else ; but it has always been like one big family here, 
and no matter what the changes, there are always enough of the 
old ones left to hold the family together, and to keep, intact, the 


A Romance of the Road 


258 

family sentiment, which sends away those who leave us, with a 
budget of love in their satchels, — and welcomes the new ones, as 
just additional children to the family circle. Already we are be- 
ginning to love Jean and Fern, just as if they had always been 
with us. That’s the way we always do.” 

Rose: “Three cheers for our family!” 

Lola: “Make it a dozen!” 

Anna D. ; “You bet! Now! — one, two, three, — Yell!!!” 

Ruby: (pounding on desk) There! There! Mercy! That’s 
enough! . . . And as Clara was saying, girls, there are 
bound to come changes, for change is the only permanent con- 
dition in all the world. The next five years will make a great 
big difference. Esther is gone. Others of us are going. And 
of Course we’re glad to be in the book. And when some of you 
poky ones see our illustration pages, you’ll wish you hadn’t been 
so slow about your pictures.” 

Lola: “Madam president, you should see Edna’s picture. It’s 
positively saintly. But let none of us be deceived ; the expression 
was assumed for the occasion. She’s been into something just 
the same.” 

Edna: “And listen! I know what it was that bu’sted that 
camera for Lola. It was her new hat!” 

Anna D. : “Lola will want the book made all over again next 
year when her hat is out of style.” 

Lola: “And Anna D. will wish she hadn’t been so ‘faddy’ 
when we no longer wear our hair in biscuits.” 

Ruby: “Never mind! Mrs. Von Meyer is putting us all in 
just as we appear right now. The years will bring changes, of 
course, but we shall all love to look back and see ourselves just 
as we were when she was writing the story. Lola’s pretty eyes 
will peep from under that new hat as irresistibly twenty years 
hence, as they do now. Anna D’s ‘biscuits’ will be as typical of 


The Bride 


259 


* 


dear, old, breezy Anna D. then, as they are at the present mo- 
ment. Oliver F.’s nose will turn up just the same; Jonesie’s hair 
will keep the pretty waves ; Gertrude will still favor her friend-, 
with that rare smile of hers, and — but that’s enough! What I 
mean is, that we will still be ourselves to one another — for love 
does not mark the changes. And as I was saying, the book will 
be a happy reminder of these jolly old days of the right now. 
Not that we shall ever — forget — of course — but — but — ” 

Elizabeth: “Of course! And as I remarked, — once before, — 
in this meeting, — my handkerchief’s down stairs!” 

Golda: “And some of the rest of us are in the same predica- 
ment, which means that we can’t indulge in any more sentiment 
right now, — and as there seem to be no more confessions — to 
make, — ” 

Anna D. : “And as that all means that this most interesting 
meeting is getting pale about the ears and achy in the joints, I 
move that we adjourn.” 

Jonesie: “Here’s hoping that Esther and all you engaged ones, 
have left a few Prince Charmings for the rest of us, and — ” 

Elizabeth: “Remember there’s a list of suspects, and though, 
our president didn’t mention any names, — ” 

Jonesie: “ — and that before another year is gone, some of the 
rest of us may be in the same boat as Esther.” 

Lola: “I protest!” 

Ruby: “And, why? — please.” 

Lola: “I want a boat of my own, — just big enough for Henry 
and me.” 

When I went down to my desk, Annie handed me some car- 
bon copies which, she told me, she had rescued from a waste 
basket. Sammy and Madge, by the way, have a staunch admirer 
in Annie. But it is Annie’s nature to be loyal to those she loves, 
and to believe in them, and her eyes were shining with apprecia 


26 o 


A Romance of the Road 


tion over these copies. Annie’s eyes are always expressive, and 
when you learn to know her and love her, as we do, you will 
never need to ask how things are, with her. You will just look 
at her eyes and know the answer. You would soon be able to 
detect it, even when she is shamming as serious, just to hide an 
inclination to be hilarious. Those expressive eyes of hers are a 
give-a-way, every time. If I could make verses, I would write 
a poem about Annie’s eyes. 

As she handed me the copies, I remembered what Vera had 
said about two certain poets who were writing in Sammy’s office, 
and I suspected right away, what basket 'had contained them. 

So, I read the verses, and took them in to Lady Edith’s office, 
and with her, read them again. And we laughed and said, 
“How clever!” Then I told her about the poet Smithie had 
seen, and about his doting parent, and we both smiled conde- 
scendingly and pityingly. We couldn’t blame other parents, of 
course, for being so foolish. They couldn’t help it because we 
had a corner on genius, — of course not!” 

And then, the Star of our Traveling Force came in and we 
tried to make her see how nice it was that she had two children 
now, instead of one. And we talked as mothers have a way of 
doing; and after a time, she cheered up a little and gave us an 
account of some of her road experiences, as “commercials” do. 
And she showed us a picture of herself, just as she looks, when, 
wearing her most businesslike expression, she puts on the gloves 
for the bout and “sallies forth” in quest of a customer, and an- 
other wearing the satisfied expression of success after the cus- 
tomer is landed. And I said “The very thing for my story,” — 
meaning the pictures. And Lady Edith said, “What a relief it 
will be, when that old book is done and we can breathe once 
more without wondering Whether the greedy thing is swallowing 
and recording every respiration.” 


The Bride 


261 

And wc told her she was just jealous because somebody else 
was the Star, and was going to have her pictures in the story 
with the girls. And Lady Edith retorted by saying that “every 
woman is a star,” and was just putting up a pretty and con- 
vincing argument in defense of her statement, as is her way, when 
it was one o’clock. Our clock is no respecter of persons. It 
doesn’t matter to it, who is talking, or what is being discussed, it 
impertinently counts off the minutes just the same and bangs a 
brawny fist right under our noses when it’s time. 

Our Star is lonely. 

And I fall to thinking of the time when my own grown-up 
babes will make nests of their own. 

And here I think of the Other Traveler. I think a good deal 
about him, in fact. He isn’t very rich — but neither am I. And 
I shall probably become poorer, for I shall give up business one 
of these days and write. And some one has said, “The literarier 
you are, the poorer you are.” 

Already ideas are shaping themselves for another book, and if 
I fail to find a publisher for this story of incident, I know that 
I shall write other stories just because I can’t help it, and be- 
cause, as one of my dear, old district school teachers said to me 
once, when I wouldn’t give up in a game of Blackman’s Base, — 
“Alice, you haven’t got sense enough to know when you’re beat.” 

But Hubert and I — I mean — oh, dear! of course I mean — 
the Other Traveler and I will not need very much money. 
We’ll need companionship and comradeship much more, and 
what the Doctor calls “Love for love’s sake,” if — 

But of course, this is merely speculative. 


CHAPTER XXIX 


THE HALLOWED PAST 


December 26. 

This morning finds us back in the office, and we’re down early, 
too, which cannot always be said of us after a holiday. 

There is a joyous hum of girlish voices and little peals of 
girlish laughter in every corner while presents are compared and 
confidences exchanged. 

Whatever may be in store for these dear girls, I am praying 
this morning that it may not be such as to lessen the joyousness 
of their laugh or to dull the brightness of the eyes that are look- 
ing so expectantly into the future. 

Signe is shyly exhibiting a diamond ring on her third finger. 
When I asked her about it she blushed a little and laughed a 
little in her own inimitable way. I never heard another laugh 
just like Signe’s. I think she has it patented. I have been in 
the woods where there were birds of many voices and once in a 
while I have caught the sound of just a soft low, musical little 
note that was different from the others; perhaps it was a love- 
note; maybe it was a mother bird singing the babies to sleep. It 
was indescribable ; and it is like Signe’s little laugh when she is 
on the verge of confidences. 

I think now that Signe doesn’t need the assistance of this 
story in her disposal. Dear little girl ! I can only hope for her 
everything she would have life hold and which, without, it would 

262 


The Hallowed Past 


263 


indeed be lacking or wholly void, requiring at least a long while 
for adjustment, — for Ruby was right when she said that, after 
all, in the mind and heart of every girl there is the image of a 
home of her own and someone to love her. 

If the man knew just what this means to the woman, would 
he make it less a risk for her? Would he be honest with her and 
would he try to make marriage the very best thing that could 
come to her? 

And now’ it is eight-thirty and the laughing girls of a moment 
ago have been suddenly transformed into the thoughtful girls, 
intent only on business. When the noon hour arrives there will 
be another transformation, and for sixty minutes, business cares 
will be thrown to the winds and, then, as seriously assumed at 
the end of the hour. 

If I were a man and was looking for a wife I should go to the 
world of business in my search. I would w~ant a wife who 
works when she w T orks and plays when she plays and know 7 s how 
to appreciate both. If a rich man, I should want a wife with 
a business training, because it gives to her stamina and strength, 
born of a knowledge of her own competency; — a stamina and 
strength and knowledge that would save her from helpless panic 
in the face of a crisis and would make of her, in truth, a help- 
meet. And I would know that this same self-confidence and 
good sense would render her, at the same time, fully competent 
to grace any position my wealth might demand for her. 

If I were a poor man I would w’ant a business woman for a 
wife, because I could trust to her judgment; and could depend 
upon her wise management in the w’ay of expenditures. I would 
know, too, that her business sense had fully grasped the situa- 
tion before she married me and that I could rely upon her for 
standing by me to the last minute. 


264 


A Romance of the Road 


And so, whether a rich man or a poor man, I should go to 
the world of business if I were looking for a wife. 

Since our last little meeting up in Ruby’s office, two very new 
and very interesting members have applied for admission — the 
very latest additions to our force — Pat and Pratt. 

No; Pat is not a hod-carrier. For that matter, neither is 
Pratt. Look at their dainty pictures and be convinced. 

But Pat and Pratt are a couple of very determined young 
ladies, who can look you in the face and say '‘Better late than 
never” in a manner so wonderfully original that you almost 
think the remark equally so. 

In vain I have explained that the book is practically finished. 
They are inexorable. 

They can’t help it because the book was written before they 
came to us; it isn’t their fault that I was in such unbecoming 
haste about it; it isn’t fair to leave them out. They just know 
that it is a sad loser because they weren’t in it right from the 
very beginning. 

In an unguarded moment I told them something of the story, 
— and Pat is absolutely certain that she would have played the 
part of Myra much better than the real Myra did it, and Pratt 
believes that she could have put Trueheart in the shade for 
constancy. 

They are both perfectly sure that they could have climbed 
into that tree at Keokuk, much more gracefully than I did it, 
and as to poetry, — why! they know for a certainty that theirs 
would have made that of the Other Traveler look like the hole 
in a doughnut. 

They know without the shadow of a doubt, that they could 
have captured Jean’s six without the aid of a sugar barrel, and 
are fully persuaded that there are others as perfect as that Only 
One of Fern’s. 


The Hallowed Past 265 

As to guardian angels, — Esther’s and Steve’s are not to be 
mentioned in the same day with theirs. 

The Mysterious Prince idea would have been a reality had 
they been with us at the time, and they can prove beyond the 
suggestion of a question that — 

But why continue ? The evidence is all in their favor. And 
in the face of such arguments what can I do? 

And so, here are Pat and Pratt, getting into this chapter in 
spite of me — bless their hearts! And just as Clara said of Jean 
and Fern, already we love them — for have they not come to sit at 
our family councils? 

And we carve their names on a prominent bough of our 
Family Tree, and bid them welcome. 

Mrs. Watson has just come down to tell me that Myra’s 
place by the window is vacant and to give me the letter from her 
that the first mail brought: 

“Dear Mrs. Watson : — I-am-writing-this-while-Robert-is-making- 
final-arrangements-for-our-journey. Oh! I couldn’t say it fast 
enough! Can you really believe it? It’s true. He’s out this min- 
ute arranging for our journey. And it’s Christmas day and the min- 
ister went away just a moment ago, — or was it an hour ago? And 
1, — I, the. poor little homeless Myra of last week, yes, even of yes- 
terday, am to-day Mrs. Robert Willis, — and the happiest girl living. 

“But how the words are tumbling over one another in my wish 
to tell you in a breath ; and now that you know the important fact, 
I know you also wish to hear some of the details. 

“I was awake early this morning, — and lonely, — I can’t express 
it ! I almost wished I had accepted your invitation to Christmas 
dinner and I’ll tell you, now, Mrs. Watson, why I refused. I know 
you love me, but I know, also, that you invited me to dinner more 
from sympathy for my loneliness than for any other reason. Now 
I don’t love you any less for your willingness to have a lonely, 
friendless girl intrude upon your holiday at home. But I couldn’t 
accept. It would have accentuated my loneliness and would have 
reminded me all day of what I had lost. 


266 


A Romance of the Road 


“All night long I dreamed the dreams that make me ill — the 
dreams in which I lived again the suffering of the past. So I awoke 
early and was trying to comfort myself as best I could, with the 
thought that has brought me the only ray of happiness I have known 
all these months, — that Robert had been true. 

“But the influence of the dream was upon me; and while Robert 
had not been false yet he was far away somewhere, perhaps a very 
long way, and, believing me dead, maybe would never return. 
Maybe — 

“I heard the bell ring at the front door. Someone bringing a 
Christmas package, perhaps, and I tried to not hear. 

“And then, — I just couldn’t believe it! I heard my name! — and 
it was his voice! I would have known it among a thousand. My 
kimono and slippers were convenient. Somehow I got them on. It 
didn’t occur to me that, perhaps, I was very unconventional. I just 
knew that it was his voice and that he was asking for me — and the 
next moment — I don’t know how it was, but I had reached the foot 
of the stairs and Robert had lifted me right off the floor — he’s such 
a big, strong fellow ! And he carried me in his arms to the sitting 
room and we were laughing and crying in the same breath, and Mrs. 
Acorn was crying, too. Oh, we acted deliciously foolish; and we 
don’t care who knows it ! 

“You know I had saved up, and had bought my pretty new suit 
that you helped me select. I have it on right now, for I am dressed 
and ready to go. But what do you think I did to please that foolish 
boy? I put on my little, old, calico frock and wore my hair just as 
I had worn it the first time he saw me, and that is the way I looked 
this morning as I stood beside him, with my hand in his, while the 
minister made me Robert’s and Robert mine. And I thought my 
heart would simply break from joy when Robert whispered, ‘My 
wife!’ and kissed me again . . . And isn’t it splendid that we 
can have a little wedding trip? We shall come this way on our re- 
turn and I’ll see you. You and Robert will be friends. . . . 
And to think that I am Mrs. Robert Willis — Robert’s wife. 

“But to you, Mrs. Watson, — my dear, good friend, — to you, — I am 
still your little girl, Myra." 

What a dear little incident is this story of Myra’s. Why it’s 
a little romance all by itself, and how beautifully it has turned 
out — just as it would have happened in a story that was only 
make-believe. 


The Hallowed Past 


267 


I’m not ashamed to say that my eyes were very full as I read 
Myra’s letter, and when I told the girls about it, theirs were 
equally misty. And Lola said, “So after all, there was some- 
thing exciting going on — a mystery right under our noses — and 
we didn’t even see it.” 

“And all the time we were looking everywhere for one,” said 
Gold a. 

“Once,” said Olive F., “I heard of a man who sold his farm 
so as to have money to invest in mineral lands that turned out to 
have no mineral, and afterward a great rich mine was discovered 
right on the land he had squandered in his search for something 
he had had all along and didn’t know k. Sometimes we are all 
like that. We search and search for something we want very 
much. Sometimes it is something we should not have or do 
not need. But sometimes it is something that is necessary to our 
happiness or even our peace of mind, and it is right that we 
should have it; and all the time it is so near us that we would 
only need to open our eyes fo see it.” 

“For instance,” said Signe, “if Mrs. Von Meyer had kept on 
postponing it, waiting for time or theme or something equally 
elusive and slippery, she never would have begun on the material 
she had at hand. She would still be waiting and we would 
never have known the delightful sensation of seeing ourselves in 
a book.” 

“It is my belief,” said Agnes, “that if we make the most of 
what we have, if we do every day our very best in the work that 
comes to us; if we live up to the fullest the possibilities of the 
present, there will be something better all ready for us, just the 
moment we are ready for it.” 

I close my eyes for a moment to think. What Agnes said 
seems almost a rebuke. 


268 A Romance of the Road 

Am I accepting the blessings of the present? — or am I living 
in the past? 

Why, the past is dead save for memory — dead ! Would the 
dear ones of the past wish me to dwell within its dim shadows? 

Why must I turn from that within my grasp ? Why need I 
throw away companionship? Why deny myself the comfort I 
shall long for? 

Shall I turn a deaf ear to my better judgment — refuse to see 
the futility and foolishness of that old ideal, and, still longing, 
yield to its demands? Born of youthful sentiment should it 
not give way to the light of maturer reason ? 

Reverently I lift the veil and view the sacred — the hallowed 
past — view it with the pure eyes of the present — unafraid and 
unashamed — and I see no reproach for me there. 

Is it, then, right? — Is love for me? 

Shall I open the door, the long-sealed door of my heart and 
bid it enter? 


CHAPTER XXX 


THE JOYOUS DEFEAT 

And now I am regretfully beginning the last chapter. 

Regretfully? Yes; that’s the word. And there are reasons. 

First I shall be lonely without this child of my thought. It 
has been the constant companion of my every spare moment for 
many moons. From the moment of its conception I have loved 
it, and I have watched it grow from one chapter to thirty, with 
a tenderness parental. 

And now it believes itself ready to go out and look for a place 
of its own in the world of books. I have told it plainly that 
it will not find the world of books any easier than any other 
world, but it’s a pig-headed youngster — all of us were like that 
once, you know — and it isn’t afraid of anything in the great, 
wide universe. 

So I shall pack its bandana, kiss it good-bye, say “God bless 
you, my child,” and let it go its way. 

When Vesta paused in her ironing that day, and said “there’s 
others,” I saw a little new glimmer of light and hope. For the 
time being I had forgotten that there could be more than one 
publisher in all the world, — and I’d been turned down by that 
one. 

But I’m feeling better today for I’ve found two others. So 
there are three publishers in the world, — and two of them are 
willing to read the manuscript when it is finished — actually to 

269 


270 


A Romance of the Road 


read it ! But I am not to imagine for one moment, they tell me, 
that this really means anything for they read many manuscripts 
and most of them, in plain American, are no good. 

I was sympathetic and said I hadn’t the slightest doubt of it, 
but that when they read mine, — 

And they smiled and said that they all thought that. I won- 
der why they both said the same thing. 

One of them looked at me over his glasses and remarked : 

“When you believe you’ve written a particularly good par 
agraph or have said something right to the point, cut it out. 
That’s the advice I always give to writers. Go over your manu- 
script and do this and then let me see it.” 

The other one said, “Is there any love in it?” 

And I told him there were stacks of it, — that I was in the 
story myself and was, myself, half in love. I told him that all 
the girls were wholly so and that the Doctor and Lady Edith 
were even more so. He shook his head doubtfully here. Maybe 
he didn’t believe that. But if he didn’t it’s merely because he 
isn’t associated with these individuals eight hours out of every 
twenty-four. He doesn’t have lunch with them every day. He 
doesn’t — 

But I saw I should not be able to make him understand about 
the Doctor and Lady Edith. 

“Are there any heroes in the story?” was the next question. 

And here I was puzzled for a moment. But there ran through 
my mind, in swift review, certain periods in the history of our 
house. I saw our president as a young man, fighting for recog- 
nition in the world of business. I saw him hewing his way 
through the wilderness of competition, with no tools, whatso- 
ever, save those of indomitable will and supreme courage, born 
of the knowledge that there was room at the top and that that 
is where his products rightfully belonged. 


The Joyous Defeat 


271 


Close beside him I saw our manager growing up in the busi- 
ness, washing bottles, nailing boxes, dictating letters, — working 
twenty-five hours in every twenty-four, standing by his chief in 
every up and down and boosting him always by a constant dem- 
onstration of his own faith. 

And I replied : “Yes, there are two heroes in the story.” And 
he told me again that I may send it along and that he will take a 
look at it. 

So Vesta made me some more tea, but she saw at once that I 
didn’t need my temples bathed. Evidently she believed me in 
need of an entirely different treatment, this time, and remarked 
casually : 

“I reckon you’ve noticed that ladders get narrow toward the 
top, and like as not the ladder of success is built the same way.” 

Instantly my spirits sank right down into my shoes. 

Once I was present during the testimonial hour of a country 
camp meeting. “Brethren,” said a calm-faced veteran in the 
Cause, “brethren, I am going to be so thankful if I can just 
squeeze through the pearly gates, that I’m not going to argue 
with Saint Peter over the color or the size of the wings he hands 
me. I’ll be so all-fired glad to just get inside, that I won’t care 
a rap if he doesn’t give me any wings at all. I’m not going to 
kick about it if I have to walk. No, brethren. I’m not. Why, 
I’d be willing to crawl on my hands and knees throughout all 
eternity. All I ask is that they just let me squeeze through the 
gates.” 

I told this story to Vesta. “Did you believe him?” she asked 
scornfully, “why, if that man once squeezed through, he’d find 
so much room to flop around in, he’d just make himself a pair of 
wings if Saint Peter wouldn’t give him any. And about this 
ladder business, — it doesn’t make any difference how narrow it 
gets, there’s a big country and a lot of room to flop around in 


272 


A Romance of the Road 


after a person once gets up there, I’m thinking, — just like get- 
ting to heaven, you know.” 

And I felt better again, but presently Vesta added, — “The 
reason why, is because nobody ever gets clean to the top.” 

Cousin Coradell writes me that she has just read of an author 
who interviewed three hundred and sixty-seven publishers, re- 
wrote his story five hundred times, and then, on his death-bed re- 
ceived notice that it had been accepted. 

But I’m suspicious of this flattery. I somehow suspect that 
Coradell has some fruit to put up. 

But there are two people in the world who believe in me 
without a single “if.” They are perfectly sure that this story is 
a gem — and they haven’t read a single word of it, either. 

Right here I see an opportunity for somebody to say, “Hence 
the reason for their belief.” 

“But,” I argue, “these are the two people who have known me 
better than anyone else, and still believe in me. Why, they be- 
lieved in me the moment they saw me — and I was very young 
when they saw me first — and they kept right on believing. They 
are the two who watched me spell down the crowd in our old 
school matches ; the two who predicted things for the future ; the 
two who see my faults and still believe. The two who — ” 

“Enough!” And that same somebody calls time, and calmly 
refers me to the story of the doting parent who believes in his 
poet son — and I am silenced. 

But I take heart again when I remember other things — for 
just hear what Miss Fedora and Lady Edith have to say: They 
assure me that they have heard of people no more intelligent than 
I, who wrote books and found publishers for them. 

And Signe believes in me. She knows for a certainty that 
this is a great story. She has dutifully wept over Myra and 


The Joyous Defeat 


2/3 


Trueheart and has laughed wherever she thought I expected it. 
What greater proof could you ask? 

And so altogether I am quite encouraged. 

The Doctor said — but the Doctor was not responsible for 
what he said. It was nice — but it wasn’t meant for me. All 
the time he was looking at Lady Edith, and was thinking about 
Lady Edith and what he said was really said to her, although 
he thought he was talking to me. 

The Doctor has another new brown suit and, like his last 
one, it has tints that just match the auburnish brown of his 
hair — and I’m beginning to suspect that this harmony of selection 
is premeditated on the part of the Doctor. 

Lady Edith is growing slenderer and prettier. They’ve come 
to be a very handsome couple and I more than half believe that 
Mr. Wells was right when he said that about love being a great 
beautifier. (At this I eagerly and hopefully scan the reflection 
of my own features in the nearest mirror). 

The first mail this morning brought a post card fresh from 
that unmuzzled imagination of the Other Traveler. It pictures 
a vine-covered cabin, built into the side of a hill. At its feet 
there is a lazy little river with a comfortable, browsing sort of 
boat moored under the willows. 

There is a vine-covered shed and one chair and an old rude 
cupboard — and in the door of the cabin are tw T o figures, a man 
and a woman — sitting just as he said they would sit, — and 
written boldly beneath is the suggestion, Next June . 

The second mail brought a letter — a dear of a letter. It is 
right before my eyes as I write this — and he’s this minute on his 
way to Chicago. 

He declares that he has solved the puzzle, that his feet once 
more are on terra firma, and that the same mail is taking to “our 


274 


A Romance of the Road 


brother, Walter” an application for the desired position, with a 
recital of qualifications calculated to secure it. Note the “our.” 

I should like to put every word of the letter right into this 
last chapter but — “What if Mr. Wells or Mr. Chance or the 
girls should read it!” 

And this remark reminds me of the tall half of the nice pair 
and her chum, the shorter half. 

My second and greatest regret about this volume is, that I 
have, after all, told so little about Sammy and Madge, when I 
planned and began it almost for the sole purpose of evening up 
with them and making good a threat of long standing to put 
them and a few of their misdeeds into print. But I didn’t know 
I was going to have so much to say about the rest of us. You 
see I didn’t know about the Other Traveler when I began the 
book — and somehow after he appeared on the scene, he kept 
getting all mixed up in almost every chapter. I simply couldn’t 
keep him out — but it’s a part of his business to get in. And, 
once in, to make himself so welcome that we don’t want him 
to go. 

And about the nice pair, — it is true that they have been on 
their good behavior for some time, but they needn’t imagine that 
I am to be deceived by that. When Sammy and Madge are un- 
usually saintly, I’m always suspicious. 

Once I knew the mother of a very active two-year-old cherub. 
Whenever she missed him a few moments longer than usual, 
or whenever the local atmosphere was heavy with a great quiet 
she always investigated, for she recognized the signs: The cherub 
was into something. 

And so I am suspicious of Sammy and Madge; for I recog- 
nize the signs. But to hear them talk, unless you knew them as 
I do, you would never have the ghost of a suspicion that mischief 
is brewing so rapidly that 3 7 ou can, if you understand, almost 
feel the thickness of it in the air, — and they, themselves, do not 


The Joyous Defeat 


2/5 


always know how near they are to an outbreak ; for right now 
is the time when they are taking themselves very seriously, — 
bless their hearts! It is often that way and is an ominous omen 
to one who knows them — just like the mother of the cherub 
knows when to investigate. 

“In my opinion,” said Madge, sagely, when spending a night 
with Sammy this week, “in my opinion the very surest way to 
happiness is work ; and the surest way. to keep it after finding it 
is work ; — work we like so much that it is better than play.” 

“The work,” said Sammy, “that brings out the very best there 
is in us and enables us to behold and gradually to approach our 
ideals, — the sort pf work that keeps one safe and satisfied. And 
we must have a few good friends, just a few that are worth 
while, the sort who will not waste our time and who can help us 
to see and to appreciate all that is true and beautiful. And they 
are hard to find* — these friends worth while, and worth know- 
ing, — and when they do come into our lives, we must hold them ; 
for in all the world there are few possessions that are better.” 

“And we must not look for too many grand-stand plays in 
life,” said Madge. 

“Because,” replied Sammy, “that is not what life is made of. 
It is the little details of kindness and attention and interest of 
the every-days that count and our appreciation of them deter- 
mines our real value as a friend, companion or associate.” 

“And that is why we should have the work that will mean 
most to us,” said Madge, “because life is work. And one must 
have Jove,” she continued, “love of just the right man — the 
man who appreciates you and whom you appreciate. Then can 
each help, encourage and inspire the other to that which is best. 
And I shall never be satisfied with any love that will not en- 
able me to idealize my surroundings. And if it calls me to the 
ends of the earth, I hope I still shall cling to that which first in- 
spired me,” 


2 j6 


A Romance of the Road 


“And while we must have love for ourselves we must also give 
away a lot of it, — give it unstintedly,” said Sammy, “for, after 
all, ‘the only love we keep is the love we give away.’ ” 

“Out of the mouths of babes,” “the thoughts of youth are 
long, long thoughts,” and other quotations went seething through 
my mind as I listened to these larger cherubs, calmly and sweetly 
discussing and settling the problems of happiness, — problems 
that the sages of all times have puzzled over and despaired of. 
But these despairing sages had reached the stage of disillusion- 
ment. 

May our cherubs be spared disillusionment ! 

“I know a girl in the city,” continued Sammy presently, “who 
has a lover. This lover’s professional interests called him to a 
desolate, desert country for an indefinite time. Do you think, 
Madgie, that love could idealize a desert?” 

“It should.” 

“Still he went alone.” 

“Why?” 

“He thought he did not dare ask her to give up the comforts 
and advantages of the city and go with him to a country so void 
of both. You see, after all, he didn’t know her.” 

“Probably he just did not know how much she cared for him.” 
Madge’s eyes were very large and very full of the mystery of 
this great thing called love. 

“He didn’t.” And Sammy’s eyes were equally luminous. 
“And now that he is away out there by himself and would give 
worlds for just a glimpse of her, he has written to ask if he dares 
hope to have her join him next year, and share with him, the 
remainder of his exile.” 

“And what did she say?” 

“She said,— she told him, — that is,— she wrote her reply in 

rhyme!” 

“Oh! A poem.” 


The Joyous Defeat 


277 


“That is what he called it, because, you see, he cares a great 
deal for her and idealizes the things she writes. I kept a — that 
is, — she gave me a copy of it.” 

And Sammy brought out and read : 

Woulds’t believe me, should I tell thee, 

That my love and I could dwell 
In desert waste or prairie wild and lone? 

Could I persuade thee skeptic 
That love’s a charmed spell — 

And that where e’er the heart is, it is home? 

Woulds’t doubt me should I tell thee 
That the city’s blaze and glare 
For me have not a single vital charm? 

Ah! doubt me not, my skeptic, 

Thinks’t thou that I would care 

For its pleasures — if my love dwelt on a farm? 

“But I thought it was a desert.” 

“It is. But she couldn't think of a ward to rhyme with it.” 

“Well, it isn’t so much as a poem,” commented Madge, “but 
the sentiment is as sweet as honey, and I know it seemed so to 
Oswald.” 

“Oswald?” 

“To be sure. Have you forgotten that I happen to know who 
it is that’s exiled?” 

“You could be mistaken, of course.” 

“Oh! Of course! And I’m glad, after all, that the lover in 
the story isn’t Oswald, for he is a selfish thing to ask her to live 
in a desert. I hate selfish men.” 

“It wasn’t selfishness. He isn’t selfish at all. And you were 
just now talking about the ends of the earth and the love that 
idealizes and so on. Why, he’s the dearest — T 
“That’s wh^t I thought.”. And Sammy, fairly caught, laughed 


278 


A Romance of the Road 


with Madge, who said, “After all he is selfish because love is the 
most selfish thing in all the world.” 

“And at the same time, the most unselfish,” said Sammy, and . 
presently she added, “sometimes I think this selfish unselfish- 
ness is responsible for the disagreements of yourself and Mark.” 

“Selfishness in disagreements?” 

“Yes. You love the task of making up. But you won’t dare 
try it so often, pretty soon, — for June isn’t far away you know.” 

“But Sammy! It is to be a long, way off June, five or seven 
years, you know. And, maybe, if he doesn’t quit hurrying me, 
it won’t be at all.” 

“I don’t blame you ; he’s very unreasonable to wish to hurry 
you so. I hate unreasonable men.” 

“You don’t need to be so very candid. I don’t know that he’s 
so unreasonable at all, and, if I wish, it shall be the very next 
June that comes and you needn’t, — ” 

And this time the laugh was on Madge. 

And again I whisper the hope that the nice pair may never 
know the disillusionment of the sages and philosophers and that 
they may be permitted to retain their ideals and to reap a full 
harvest in the Life Beautiful, — this darling of mine with the 
sweet mouth and her chum with the pansy-brown eyes! 

Although I have given to the world some of Sammy’s and 
Madge’s gems of poetry, and though they are going to be more 
surprised than they ever were before in all their lives when 
they see the backs of their heads in print, and though I’ve ruth- 
lessly told just a few of their secrets — yet I’m far from even and 
feel that I haven’t, somehow, handled the case adequately. 
They’re a long way ahead on the score, but if I were to write 
another volume they would still be ahead. 

Maybe my avowed intention all along was colored by my own' 
very private opinion of the nice pair. Maybe I’m just an abject 


The Joyous Defeat 


279 


worshiper like Joe’s doting sire and all parentdom and have, 
after all, really wished you to see them as I have seen them right 
along. For, listen: In reality I actually think them “cute,” 
whatever that may mean — and Sammy stoops to kiss me as she 
passes my desk — and over I go to the enemy in unconditional 
surrender, completely and joyously vanquished. 

And here I shamelessly acknowledge another joyous defeat : 

I take up again, the dear letter from the Other Traveler — 
and the post card with the “Next June” suggestion. And I press 
my lips to them — the pressure he felt on his forehead when I 
wiped the blood away — and called him Hubert — and begged him 
to live — to live for me. 

And now he’s coming . . . Tomorrow I shall see him. 

Again I kiss the words below the sketch, “Next June,” and I 
answer the challenge — “Yes, dear; next June. We need not 
wait longer. We will sit in the door of the cabin just as you 
said we would — and your dream about the boat shall come true.” 

And I stretch my arms Southward — and know that I am 
beaten — hopelessly defeated. . . . And I glory in the help- 

less abandonment of surrender complete — the sweet, yielding 
surrender that a woman loves to make when she loves and is 
beloved. 

We will go down the last slope together — so close that we 
may put out a hand and find an answering clasp all along the 
way. . . . And we will pray the Great Father for this last 

boon : — that we may cross over together . 


Brown’s 

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By PROF. I. H. BROWN 


89 SPECIAL 
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